


WHIPLASH

by antineutrinos



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Sci-fi, Angst, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Platonic Romance, XCOM - freeform, XCOM AU, also Lewis is jesus confirmed, lewis almost gives an alien head, tom is life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-05-16 00:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14801153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antineutrinos/pseuds/antineutrinos
Summary: Pyrion leafs through the manila file left on his desk. Dust covers the pale folder. It’s wrinkled and tired. He sighs and starts skimming.NAME: LEWIS ‘XEPHOS’ BRINDLEYSERVICE NUMBER: 69451YEARS OF SERVICE: 6 (2022-2028), CURRENTLY INACTIVERANK: GENERALAWARDS: RIBBON OF HONOURABLE SERVICE (2028)HISTORY: Joined at 18. Trained under Sgt. Highway - covert operations, alien tactics. Served under Capt. Varadkar - classified operations. Served under General Bowler - South-East Asian Invasion. Sustained a bone fracture and other wounds. Took leave after squad members killed. Promoted to General. Permanent leave since 29-6-2028.A photo sits on top of the page. Brindley scowls, eyes dark and brooding. Pyrion wonders how time has changed him. A scrap of paper covered in black pen falls out of the file.Pyrion— make appointment with Brindley. Need to take him in— things don't look well. The other prospects fell through & we need someone to command these XCOM shits or else we'll have more than aliens to deal with. Call me after and we can talk options. Don't fuck up, Flax.—LanePyrion rubs his nose and gets to work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> YOU DON'T NEED TO BE FAMILIAR WITH XCOM TO READ THIS.
> 
> I tried my best to do this in a way so it'd be okay for non-xcom people. If you do happen to be familiar with XCOM, then, well, fair play to you. You will just have to suffer through the vague over-explaining. Also— there are 0 spoilers in this. I don't think I could've diverged any more from the actual XCOM plot. There are little references here and there, and maybe some parallels, but nothing to worry about.
> 
> As for thank-yous, I want to give the biggest hugs and kisses to Bella. Of course, she will say she had nothing to do with this. However, this story wouldn't have gotten past the brainstorming phase if it weren't for her constant support and motivation. Not to mention her opinions, editing and overall loveliness. At this point, this fic is as much hers as it is mine, although again, she will never admit that.
> 
> Tumblr is @antineutrinos if you want to talk. I think that's it for the pre-fic ramble. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

**_ACT ONE_ **

LIBERATION STARTS WITH YOU. JOIN XCOM TODAY. 

Lewis flicks through the recruitment leaflet. It's a few years old, full of outdated information. Aliens have invaded, it reads, fight the good fight today. On the front cover, there's a busty woman in a big suit of power armour holding a plasma rifle. The word 'XCOM,’ sits across the bottom of the cover in big, fat letters, the logo in the upper right-hand corner. It's reminiscent of the old Rosie the Riveter posters. Lewis won't lie and say he isn't impressed. Something about it stirs the nationalism inside of him.

He's sitting in an office. Pyrion Flax sits across from him, behind a polished oak desk. Littered across the desk are framed photographs of Pyrion's family along with sheets of paper, kept company by old coffee mugs. The walls are a soft off-white. It's a nice office, if not cramped. There's a sentimentality to it. Lewis wonders if Pyrion likes it or just tolerates it.

Pyrion leans back in his chair, skimming through a file. His shirt is winkled, and his tie hangs from his unbuttoned collar. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck before looking at Lewis for what feels like the first time. 

"So, you want to join XCOM," he says. His eyes are magnified by his glasses. He seems like an austere man, Lewis thinks, like he knows his stuff. Austere, but genuine.

Lewis flicks through the pamphlet one more time before returning it to its pile on Pyrion's desk. "Well, you want me to join XCOM,” Lewis says, thinking, _let's get this over with._

Pyrion smiles, more of a grimace than anything else. "Correct and right. Do you know what XCOM does?"

Lewis feels like a schoolboy sitting in the principal's office. He feels like rolling his eyes, but doesn’t, because despite his ingrained dislike for all authority, he wants to make a good impression. "Of course I know what XCOM does. They fight the aliens that've been invading for, like, the last fifty years."

"Thirty-five years. We've been fighting them off for thirty-five years. You know the great thing? In all that time, we haven't conceded. We have fought and fought for the people of this planet and we don't intend on stopping."

Despite his previous annoyance, Lewis can't help swell with pride at those words. He's doing the right thing, whether he has a choice or not. He tries to dampen down the feeling with cynicism, the words _we'll never stop them anyway, it's hopeless. May as well leave now, Brindley._ It almost works, but the voice still whispers at the back of his mind. "But?"

Pyrion leans forward, folding his hands on the desk and looking Lewis straight in the eye. "Truth is, Brindley, despite all the fighting and propaganda, XCOM is on its knees. It would've been scrapped a few years ago if it weren't for me. The council that advises XCOM isn't happy, and most of the countries funding XCOM aren't happy either."

Lewis blinks. Things start to make a bit more sense now.

"And Brindley— you've fought aliens before. You were part of the military. You know how this works. You have experience with what we're up against. As far as I'm concerned, you are the perfect man for the job. That's why I'm appointing you the brand-new Commander."

Lewis snorts. "Commander? Are you serious?" In his head, Lewis considers himself at the bottom of the Possible-Commanders list. The last time he even had even _remote_ contact with the military was years ago. Even when he was part of the military, he left a week after being promoted to general. The thought of Lewis being in charge of a whole operation nearly makes him laugh out loud. Surely, he heard Pyrion wrong.

Lewis shakes his head, a smile worming its way onto his face. He can't be put in charge of XCOM. The word 'XCOM' being synonymous with _death wish._ It was fun while it lasted— that recruitment leaflet was nice— but it's all a bit too far-fetched now. Lewis half-expects Pyrion would slap him on the arm with a big smile and yell "Just kidding! Sure got you, Brindley."

Instead, Pyrion shrugs. "Well, you're all we've got."

He tries his best to read between the lines. XCOM is on thin ice and has no money to boot. Lewis has minor experience with aliens and moderate experience on the field. Everyone else on the Possible-Commanders list is probably dead or refused the job. Lewis is a last resort. If he doesn't do it, then XCOM will be effectively thrown in the garbage along with the billions of dollars that it took to establish. The deaths of everyone 'fighting the good fight' will be left meaningless, too.

There's another major discrepancy, though. It swims to the front of Lewis' mind, separated from the loud buzzing and the hundreds of questions flying round his head. "I was only a general before. Are you promoting me up what, like, three ranks?"

Pyrion shrugs again, this time paired with a humorous smile. It seems like Lewis isn't the only one who's finding this funny. "Well, why can't I? You're our last chance, Brindley, whether you like it or not."

"This is fucking ridiculous." Lewis says, bitter. It’s meant to be forceful, but instead it’s half-hearted and soft. Lewis bites his lip, smile fading fast. He can't actually be put in charge of XCOM. Can he? 

Pyrion stops smiling, instead resting his chin on his hands. He's quieter now, and Lewis stops smiling, too. "You do realise this is a big job, don't you, Brindley?" 

And Lewis is back to being the schoolboy in the principal's office. Suddenly there's a seriousness to it all, a sombre tone overtaking the conversation. Pyrion's shoulders slump as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Well, yeah. Being in charge and everything," Lewis says. He worries his lip.

Pyrion takes a deep breath. "Well, kid, if you fuck up, then it's on you. You don't just have to win against the aliens. You also have to carry the success of the XCOM operative on your shoulders. It's a big pressure. I know that personally. But—“

"But what?"

"But you wouldn't be doing this if you didn't have your own personal reasons to. I know that much."

Lewis thinks of Ben. Lewis can't remember him as well as he used to, because the memory is fading like a cassette deteriorating the more it's used. Still, Lewis can remember his bright laugh, their sharing cheap cigarettes while on patrol duty. He can remember the hiss of a grenade and the yell as Ben died, too. The Congo jungle felt suffocating that day.

Lewis swallows. He doesn't want to talk about Ben. "I suppose," he says, after a while. Pyrion smiles as if he understands. Indignancy rises in Lewis' chest at the thought— Pyrion doesn't understand anything— but it dissipates as quickly as it appears, leaving him empty. "I didn't choose to do this."

"Nobody does, Brindley. That's why you have to." Pyrion stands up.

He says something about Lewis showing himself out, but Lewis doesn't quite listen. Pyrion claps his shoulder and wishes him luck. Says that he starts his new position as Commander next week at 0600 hours. Pyrion's words rattle around Lewis' head like stones, mingled with the sweaty Congo jungle and the pop and crack of distant gunshots. Lewis doesn't have to do this, but he will. He’ll do it for that day in the Congo. Ben deserves that much. Lewis stands up, determination filling every inch of his body until he's full to the brim.

\- 

Lewis hadn't expected XCOM to be so weird. And weird is definitely the word to describe it.

He'd been met by a bright, burly man named Smith who'd announced himself with, "I'm only here because I like to blow stuff up.” He'd shown Lewis the base, which would've been state of the art, fifteen years ago. It's big and sprawling, hidden away beneath some farmland. There's the research department, commanded by XCOM's very own mad scientist, Dr. Lalna. He made no appearances, much to Lewis' disappointment. He would've liked to meet Dr. Lalna. It would’ve eased the initial few weeks, too. Forget about being the schoolboy in Principal Pyrion's office— starting XCOM may as well be the same as starting a new school.

Next is the engineering department, who build the technology for the research department _to_ research. Smith informs Lewis of the deadly competition between Engineering and Science. Hatred runs deep, apparently. There's the common room, the mess hall, the hangar, the living quarters, offices, and the situation room. Not forgetting the alien containment storage, which is perhaps the weirdest room of all, with different aliens suspended in big vats of goo. Smith and Lewis don't spend too long in there.

It's really the bridge that demands all the attention, though. A bright blue holographic globe takes centre stage, sitting proudly in the middle of the room (or at least, it would be proud, if it weren't flickering so much). A massive monitor takes up almost all of the back wall, while other monitors and controls line the remaining walls. There are padded seats and desks fitted in between. XCOM banners hang from the ceiling, albeit old and tattered.

Sitting beneath the hologlobe is Tom, who introduces himself as the executive officer. The second in command. Tom is big and tall, with an impressive beard. Even more impressive is the scar running down the right side of his face, from his forehead down his cheek. It runs through his eye, which is white and cloudy. All in all, Tom seems like a fucking badass.

He must've caught Lewis staring, too, because he interrupts their conversation to point at his bad eye with a small smile. Lewis starts to stutter his way through an apology but Tom cuts him off. "No, it's usually the first thing people notice. I'm blind in that eye. Fucked up, I know."

Lewis can't help but gape. "What _happened?_ "

Tom smiles again, bittersweet. He pulls a cigarette out and lights up, blows the smoke up towards the ceiling. "I'll tell you some other time. It's a long story." He pauses and Lewis turns his attention to the people buzzing around, like bees around a hive, and— Jesus. He's actually doing this. He's really going to be in charge of this whole operation. 

Tom seems to catch on. "Is this your first time doing something like this?" He asks, looking at Lewis with an odd half-smile. He's wearing a thin jumper with the XCOM logo embroidered at the breast, and a pair of sweatpants. Lewis has to tear his eyes away and focus on keeping eye contact. Good impressions, he thinks, good impressions.

Lewis takes a deep breath, returning the weird half-smile with one of his own. "First time doing something so big."

Tom winks. He _winks_. "We'll make it a special experience, Commander. It'd be a shame if your first time was unpleasant. Especially with something as big as this."

Lewis chokes. He can't help it. He's been here for what feels like ten minutes and he's already convinced everyone here is crazy. Lewis dissolves into laughter, loud and raucous. It echoes off the steel walls, and Lewis receives more than one weird look. Brilliant. He's already cementing his reputation as the crackpot commander. But then Tom follows suit, with his own quiet little chuckle, and Lewis likes Tom. He's more than glad that he's already made a friend (even if it isn't the mad scientist).

There’s a yell from one of the doors. Smith is standing there, beer raised high in the air. "Commander!" He calls, "We're celebrating your awaited arrival!"

Lewis looks at Tom. Tom looks at Lewis. Tom raises his eyebrows and Smith grabs them, pulling them through the hallways.

The celebrations turn out to be in the common room, which is packed full of people. Lewis didn't even think so many people could fit in a room, but the collective cheer as Lewis walks in proves it. A drink is pushed into his hand, and someone turns up the music, which seems to be a continuous loop of SexyBack by Justin Timberlake. Everyone is screaming and laughing and doing something that vaguely resembles dancing. Somebody must really like Justin Timberlake.

A short man with a strong beard clambers up onto the pool table. He's dressed in a black tracksuit, swaying to the beat while trying not to spill his drink. "People!" He yells over the music, “People, shut up!"

Someone yells, " _You_ shut up, Turps!" and there's a cheer from the crowd. Lewis has about zero idea what's going on. Tom, who'd stopped to speak to a beautiful, very intimidating woman with short hair, turns around and nudges Lewis. "That's Turps," he half-shouts in Lewis' ear, “He trains the noobs."

Lewis can see why. Turps seems to be so full of bullshit that it comes out of both his ass and his mouth. The celebrations must've started before Lewis arrived, because everyone looks shitfaced. "People!" Turps repeats, “In our presence tonight, there is the _man!_ The man who will lead us to glory! He will take over the position as Commander and hopefully he won't turn into an alcoholic like the last one did!"

Lewis sends a questioning look at Tom. Tom shrugs.

Turps continues, "I would like to extend a thank you to that man, who I have not had the pleasure of meeting yet—“

"He's right here!" Smith yells, pointing at Lewis, who cringes and wishes, desperately, that the aliens would invade the base right now. That way, he could avoid whatever is coming next.

Turps lights up, smiling, although it seems forced. "Wow, the man himself! He should come up here and do his own speech! We’ll see if it beats mine!"

Everyone in the room turns to look at Lewis, who he takes a big swallow of whatever alcohol he was given, preparing to say whatever comes to mind. Usually, it works out. It's about a 50-50 chance. He's had the times where he's said the completely wrong thing— the time he accidentally told his co-worker to fuck him— but at this point, it's a reflex.

And, well, people are waiting for his noble first words as Commander, so Lewis raises his cup and does what he does best. "Fuck the aliens! Vive la revolution!"

The crowd erupts. People raise their cups as they cheer. Tom laughs. Lewis smiles.

\- 

Lewis learns very quickly that XCOM is not as fun as it first made itself out to be.

In his first week, there are no extra-terrestrial encounters, but they do have to shoot down a supply aircraft to steal the capacitors it was transporting and salvage it for parts. Lewis gets to know the team, who aren’t so bad. He spends the most time with Tom, of course, since Tom is the second in command, but he also has a brief conversation with Dr. Lalna, who turns out to be big and burly. In fact, everybody who is part of the XCOM operation seems to be big and burly, manly and intimidating. Dr. Lalna, however, is formal. They talk about the energy capacitors they took, and that’s it. Lewis wishes Dr. Lalna wouldn’t lock himself away in his labs with his army of scientists. He seems like such a sweet soul.

Lewis had gone down to witness the soldiers getting ready, when they went out for that aircraft. It dredged up old memories to witness them all strapping on armour and loading their gauss rifles. They'd all lined up and saluted when Lewis entered, too. Smith was there, greeting Lewis with a bright smile and a wink. The big scary woman was there too. Lewis heard her being called Chou. He was and is too scared to approach her, which is stupid, but Lewis is a stupid person. 

He'd watched as everyone loaded up onto the Skyranger, which was their own aircraft, and off they went. He'd returned to the bridge, slipped his earpiece into his ear and they began. Lewis issued orders, with gentle guidance from Tom, and then the capacitors were theirs. Simple.

However, it's not all orders and missions. There are reports to be made and orders to sign off on. There is lots of paperwork to be done, which usually Tom does, apparently, but Tom “wants Lewis to know what is going on,” at least at the beginning. They orders three boxes of Doritos a month. When Lewis asks, Tom tells him to stop asking questions and to guard his Doritos with his life.

All in all, it could be worse. The week ends with, of all things, Lewis joining the weekly poker game. It happens on a Saturday night, at the cramped table in the common room. The only light that's on is the one directly above the poker table, casting a halo of disconcerting light around the table while the rest of the room is left in darkness.

Tom deals, throwing cards with an easy expertise. There's a cigarette in his mouth, and he's puffing out smoke like a steam train. Then there’s Turps— who is surprisingly good at poker, when he's not trying to talk someone into playing the wrong cards. Apparently he got the name 'Turps' when he almost downed turpentine instead of vodka. He throws in some chips and a packet of Doritos and the game is off.

Doritos seems act like currency in XCOM, along with cigarettes. It's weird, and Lewis doesn't understand, but he plays his cards and keeps quiet.

There's Sjin, too, who seems to have no purpose other than existing. Despite this, Lewis finds that a damn good poker player when he tries. Granted, he doesn't seem to try very often, but the threat remains. Zylus, who hails from the Netherlands, joins them too, with Barry. Barry is a lean piece of shit noob that seems to have somehow found his way into the grownup's poker game. Turps says something about having to install baby gates in the scrub quarters and Lewis laughs.

"That's cheating!" Turps exclaims, throwing his cards down. "Sjin couldn't have won _again!_ "

Sjin grins, eyes crinkling, as he reaches over and takes his prize. As it stands, Sjin now has four packs of Doritos and a carton of cigarettes. "It's called winning, Turps. Wouldn't expect you to know anything about it." 

Tom nods, tapping away the ashes of his cigarette as he gathers up everyone's cards. "A royal flush is a royal flush," he says, hands moving quick as he shuffles the cards. He has a quiet little smile on his face. Lewis doesn't know if Sjin is actually cheating. Tom, the dealer and also the referee, is allowing it. Therefore, Lewis has no issue with it.

"Not if it's his third royal flush in a row!"

Lewis rolls his eyes, although it's not without humour. "Stop whining, Turps, Jesus."

Tom nods at Lewis, then at Turps. Again with the little smile. "Those are orders, Turps."

Lewis laughs. Someone pops open another bottle of beer and hands it round. "And you should deal the cards!"

Tom chuckles, dealing the cards with lightning speed to the chime of, “Yes boss.” They play game after game after game, in between the constant arguing. In the end, the winnings are just put towards next week's pot. They couldn't even decide who won, so it seemed like the best idea. Lewis can't tell what time it is— he's still getting used to the lack of sunlight— but it's late. People start retiring to bed, and before long, there's only a few people left. They play snap to pass the time. Barry says his goodbyes and then it's just Lewis and Tom.

Tom lights up another cigarette, throwing the box across the table to Lewis. He sits back in the chair, folding his legs. "You smoke?" He asks, gesturing at the box, then at Lewis.

Lewis shakes his head, getting up and heading to the bar. There's a bar in the common room, for whatever reason. It's probably Turps that got it put there, after all. "No, I stopped a few years ago. Do you want a drink?" 

Tom throws his head back and groans, “God, I've wanted a drink all day. Is there any scotch?"

Lewis scours the shelves beneath and behind the bar. There's plenty of bottles, all right, but most are empty and unmarked. Miraculously, he finds one full of something. He sniffs it, turning back to Tom. "I can only find bourbon."

Tom rolls his eyes. "That's Smith for you. Him and his pals have all the booze."

Lewis gathers up some dusty glasses and starts pouring. "Smith and his pals?"

"Yeah. Some sniper and Hornby, the pilot. He flies the Skyranger. Hornby's alright." Lewis sits down next to Tom, placing their drinks down on the table. "They're like the three musketeers, those three," Tom continues, "Full of mischief when they're not sucking each other off." 

Lewis snorts. He doesn't know if that part about sucking each other off is true or not, but Lewis wouldn't be surprised. Stuck underground for months at a time, it only makes sense for people to have sex. Smith and his friends did seem awful close, though. Maybe they're just good friends. Lewis takes a sip of his bourbon and damn near chokes. 

"Not a whiskey man?" Tom asks. Lewis likes how Tom looks in this lighting. Little tufts of hair peek out from underneath his beanie. He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray and swaps it for the glass of booze.

Lewis shakes his head. The drink burns all the way down his throat. "I'm a gin man myself. I fucking hate bourbon."

"Really? I had you down as a rum type of guy."

He shakes his head again. "I would rather die than drink rum." He swirls the bourbon around the glass, which is cracked and worn. "What about you? What do you drink?"

Tom drinks his bourbon. Like the badass he is, he drinks it as easily as you'd drink water. "Scotch on the rocks is my favourite."

"I'll have to get you some of the good stuff for your birthday or something."

"Thank you. You're right, though, bourbon does taste like shit."

The conversation trails off, as Lewis bears the bourbon and Tom drinks it without a sound. Lewis spends more time swirling it in the glass than he does drinking it. They're both content in their silence, which is only filled with the faint buzzing of the lightbulb overhead and the creaks of the base around them. Lewis doesn't mind being Commander so far. The people are nice and it's not too stressful, yet. Then again, Lewis only got the job last week. 

Lewis stops and looks at Tom, who looks like he's off in another world. "What did you do before you joined XCOM?" He asks. "Were you military?"

Tom licks his lips. He hums. "Yeah, originally. Things didn't work out and I ended up here, though."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

"Well, Commander, I think it was one of the better things that happened in my life, actually. You know, between getting my eye torn out by a bear. What about you? Were you military, too?"

That is too much information for Lewis to digest at once. He starts with the easy stuff. "Your eye was torn out by a bear?"

Tom looks at him and then he chuckles. "You bet. The biggest grizzly you've ever seen. Teeth as long as my forearm. It was crazy. I only survived by covering myself in blood and pretending to be dead."

Lewis gives him a look. "Really?"

Tom puts on a mock-horrified face, putting his hand over his heart. "Me? Lying? To you, the Commander? Like you said earlier, I'd sooner die."

Lewis smiles, shaking his head. "Yeah, I was military. Fought the aliens in the Congo a few years ago. I lost my whole squad there. Pretty hard stuff."

Tom nods, although it's solemn. Lewis appreciates the respect. “That must've been rough."

"Rough doesn't even describe it."

"I'm sorry you went through that."

Lewis swallows. "Don't be. It couldn't have been stopped. It was mutons, too, those sons of bitches. My best friend died that day. I don't think I'll ever forget it."

Tom blinks, tilting his head to the side. "Why are you here, then? Surely that would've turned you off this stuff altogether?"

"Oh, it did. I left after that. I became a teacher. Like, ten years pass, and then I get a phone call saying they want me for Commander, that I'm perfect for the job. And here I am. Drinking bourbon and playing poker with the best of them."

"If you can call Turps the best." Tom's attempts at humour are good, and they raise a smile out of Lewis, but Lewis is on a roll now. He won't be stopping till he has this whole story told. He feels bad for Tom. He doesn't know what Lewis is like when it comes to life stories and bad anecdotes. 

Lewis continues, despite everything. "So I guess I'm here so all the people who died that day didn't die for nothing. And if I can kill aliens while I do it, then it's a win-win situation." 

Tom nods. "And your friend?" 

"My friend? He's long dead." Lewis gestures at Tom, and at the common room. "But now I have other friends instead, so it's okay." 

"What was he called?" 

"What, my friend? Edgar. Ben Edgar. His callsign was Shark, if my memory is right." 'If my memory is right' bullshit. Lewis remembers everything about Ben and he doubts he'll ever forget. How he liked cream in his coffee instead of milk and never ate too much sugar because it made his teeth ache. He'll never forget.

They fall back into silence. Tom drains his glass and stands up. "Listen, I'm going to bed now. You'll have to go to Engineering tomorrow, as early as possible. There's a report down there the guys want you to look at and apparently I'm not good enough for the job, so you'll have to go down yourself." 

Lewis nods. "Thanks, Tom." 

"Goodnight, Commander."

\- 

The engineering department is full of machines and steel and sparks. There's plenty of people around, all busy welding or something. Lewis doesn't know or care. He stands in the door, unsure of what to do. Who the hell is he supposed to speak to, anyway? It's not like Tom was particularly specific, or anything. None of the engineers offer him any help, or even seem to notice him. Lewis stands there and worries about what he should do. Should he go back and ask Tom? Or wander out onto the floor, full of perils and dangers?

Eventually, someone comes to his aid. The man slips his welding visor up onto his forehead and starts peeling off his gloves. He looks like a lumberjack. God, he's burly. Why is everyone in XCOM so goddamn burly? 

"Are you, like, okay?" The man asks. He has a strange accent, and his skin is weird and greyish. He’s the manliest man Lewis has ever seen. Big muscles, square jaw, stubble, the lot. He looks down at Lewis. 

Lewis swallows. He stares up at the man. "I was— I— uh— I have to look at some report. Or something." 

The man squints. "You'll have to speak to the bossman for that. But not just everyone can speak to the bossman. Go and get your supervisor, kid, and then they'll do it for you." He turns away then, reaching up to put his visor back on. "God, sending chumps to do the dirty work? They must really be desperate up there in admin, huh." 

This isn't right. Lewis isn't some little _chump_. "Um, I'm the Commander," he says, half holding his hand up. He tries not to let the heat rise to his cheeks. God, this is embarrassing. 

The man looks at Lewis, squinting again. He must've seen the word 'COMMANDER' embroidered on Lewis' shirt because suddenly he's clapping Lewis on the shoulder and ushering him further into the centre of the Engineering Deathtrap Room. "You're the Commander, eh? They call me Sips around here. Yeah, we'd been told there was a new sheriff in town." 

Lewis grimaces. "Yeah, that's me." 

Someone stops to fistbump Sips, then they're back walking. They all seem to be working on separate parts of the same thing. Going by the weird shell of metal in the corner of the work floor, where they're building a new ship. "I didn't know they were hiring small things like you," Sips chuckles. "Fuck, I don't think you'd survive a second out there!" 

Lewis didn't think he'd survive a second inside the engineering department, but here he is. He didn't think he'd survive as the Commander of XCOM, either, but he's alive and well. Seems like Lewis has a thing for ruining expectations. 

He feels tiny as they walk out of the main area and into some different hallways. The corridors twist and turn, and it's more like they're in a maze than the engineering department. Lewis follows behind as Sips chatters on. 

"...yeah, I'm from Canada. Hey, the man himself! I'll leave you and the boss to it. Important boss stuff, right? See you round, Brindley!" With that Sips turns around and leaves. Lewis feels exposed without him. Sips was his shield as Lewis ventured through the strange land of Engineering. Now, his shield is gone and Lewis would have to actually talk to people about serious things. 

What Lewis finds, though, is not what he expected. The head engineer, the bossman, bent over a big table covered in blueprints. A pencil tucked behind his ear, talking heatedly to a couple other people with pencils behind their ears. Engineers, Lewis guesses. The head engineer looks up at Lewis, catches his eye, and Lewis feels everything collapse. 

It's Ben. Ben is the Head Engineer. Ben's... _alive_. 

The floor seems to be failing Lewis, because his legs feel like jelly. It's hard to breathe, too, like there's something crawling around his windpipe and choking him. Ben knows, too. He sees Lewis and tells everyone to leave. Lewis isn't really paying attention. How can Ben be alive after all this time? How can Ben be _here?_

Lewis steps back, so he can lean against the wall. Ben stands up straight, fishing the pencil out from behind his ear and patting the wrinkles out of his clothes. He looks older. He doesn't look like the Ben that Lewis remembers from all those years ago. His eyes are still the same, though. Still brown. Not brown, though— they're cinnamon, dog shit, walnuts, molten chocolate. Honey-coloured if you catch them in the light. Like the sun, filtering through the canopy of the Congo jungle. Ben looks like a ghost. Lewis _feels_ like a ghost. 

Neither of them say anything. Lewis is too busy trying not to fall onto the floor. 

"Lewis?" Ben says. He whispers it. He whispers it the same way a ghost would. It makes the hair on the back of Lewis' neck stand up. He hasn't heard those words in so many years. How much has he wished for this moment? 

Lewis catches his eye. He has so many questions. "Ben?" 

Ben wrings his wrists. He bites his lip, too. He knows he's been caught. "Are you— I mean, are you okay?" 

Lewis can't help but smile. Even after all this time, he's still Ben. Even if he isn't the same Ben he used to be. God, this doesn't feel fucking _real_. This can't be happening. Ben was blown up by a grenade. He can't be alive. He can't be here, but he is. 

"You're the one that died, Ben." Lewis says the words slowly, letting his tongue wrap around each one as it rolls around his mouth. The thing choking his windpipe is still there. He wonders what it is. Despite everything, there's still humour in his voice. What a fucking miracle. 

"You know what I mean," Ben says. He doesn't smile. He knows this isn't the time for laughter. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Lewis is afraid to ask questions. There's a worry that creeps up his chest. If he asks questions, then Ben might dissolve, turn into dust. If he starts asking questions then he'll get closure. Lewis thought he'd never receive closure. He didn’t want it. There's a niggling, though. If there's one thing Lewis needs right now, it's affirmation. 

"How are you here?" Lewis says. He makes sure not to slouch. If Ben does fade away, and if this is a dream, then at least Lewis wouldn't be slouching. "I thought you died. I thought the grenade—“ 

"I know." Ben's words are sharp. They shock Lewis like electricity. Ben steps forward, in front of the table. He folds his arms and leans against it. He's directly across from Lewis. He looks at the floor. "It was a stun grenade. They took everyone prisoner. It was months before they fished me out." 

Well. That answers that. Next question. 

"Why were you— why didn't you get in contact?" There's a surprising force behind Lewis' words. It's not intentional. "I would've thought—“ 

Ben worries his lip. He still won't look Lewis in the eye. "I thought it'd be best if you didn't know. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that." 

"Ben, you should've told me— I thought you were _dead_ —“ 

"Yeah, well, Lewis, you weren't abandoned by your friends and kept in an alien base for the best part of a year—“ 

"I can't believe you're alive and you didn't fucking tell me—" 

"Shut up, Lewis." The words crack like thunder. Lewis is dumbstruck. _This isn't real. This isn't real._ "I don't think you can fucking play the victim, here. You weren't tortured by fucking mutons while all your friends either died or forgot about you." 

Anger surrounds Lewis like a second skin. "What was I supposed to do? It's not like I was getting your distress signals or anything!" He snarls. This wasn't how Lewis imagined meeting Ben again. It wasn't supposed to be so...angry. Lewis had thought Ben was dead. 

"Lewis, you are so— I was left with no one—“ 

"So was I!" 

"At least you weren't an alien's bitch!" 

Lewis stops. He deflates like a balloon. He's sorry. So sorry. His skin stops burning but his heart rate doesn’t slow down. 

Ben is tense, pulled taut like a string. He looks at Lewis properly now. He’s red in the face, too. “Half the team didn’t make it, Lewis. They had practically had an army of prisoners. I only got out when a rescue squad bombed the place to hell and dragged me out." 

Lewis exhales. The constricting around his throat lessens, but only slightly. God, Lewis wants to fall to the floor and beg for forgiveness. He wants to make up for all the lost time and broken promises. “Ben—“ 

“No, I know. You were lucky to make it out alive.” 

Lewis swallows. “No, I…” He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to put his feelings into words. “I shouldn’t have left you there." 

“You thought I was dead.” 

“I should’ve known you’d make it. You’re nothing if not resourceful." 

Ben forces a smile. It’s his attempt at diffusing the tension that still plagues the air between them. “Well, you definitely moved up the ranks, anyway.” 

Lewis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, and where did I land myself? In the middle of crazy alcoholics that could crush me if they wanted to. Not to mention the weird Canadians and the engineers who come back to life.”

Ben smiles, but it seems a bit more genuine this time. They have to get to know each other again. “That’s Sips for you. I bet he’s like a lizard, you know, he can regrow limbs or something.” He pauses and his smile falters. “As for me… I don’t know about coming back to life. It wasn’t as heroic as you make it sound.”

Lewis hesitates. “You’ll have to— you’ll have to tell me the story someday. How it happened.” 

They both see that sentence for what it is: a peace offering. Talking about the future— their future friendship, and if there will be one. It’s up to Ben, now, to choose what happens.

Ben nods. He smiles, and Lewis can’t rid his mind of young Ben with a rifle strapped across his back and a cigarette in his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll have to,” he says, “Someday.”

Lewis’ earpiece fills with static. Everyone wears earpieces, so they can communicate wherever they are. It’s useful, but sometimes it’s used as if it’s a chat room instead of their Important Official Comms. The technology is a bit outdated, too, compared to their other tech. Tom’s voice comes over the comms, crackling, “Commander needed in the bridge, as soon as possible.”

Lewis presses his finger to his earpiece. “I’ll be there now.”

Ben watches as Lewis readies himself to leave. They make eye contact and Ben nods kindly. “Running errands?”

Lewis snorts. “You have no idea. Tom said there was a report I needed to look at here, actually?” Lewis has one hand on the doorknob to leave. At this point, he doesn’t care about the report. He just wants to sit and digest the last ten minutes. 

Ben’s forehead creases. He leans on his other leg as he shakes his head. “No, there’s no report. Tom must’ve got mixed up.”

“Oh, well… I’ll see you around.” He walks out the door and then he’s gone. He passes Sips on the way out too. They fistbump and then Lewis is heading to the bridge to see what Tom wants. 

\- 

“Trott, do you have visual? If so, take the shot. We can’t afford to lose anything else here.”

“Roger that, Commander.”

They intercepted an alien ship. Now they’re picking off the stragglers so they can take everything worth value. They're up against sectoids, little grey men with big heads and eyes. They’re easy compared to some of the other aliens, but they’re still scary. At least, they are to Lewis.

Trott takes the shot from where he’s hidden, and the sectoid goes down like a rag doll. They're scattered all over the place, but it's easy to hide. The alien ship crashed in a small valley in the grassy plains of nowhere. However, the long grass gives easy cover and there's no wind to carry the sound. The weight of responsibility sits heavy on Lewis' shoulders.

There's static in the earpiece. "There's a sectoid looking around outside the ship. He's armed, looks like a plasma pistol. What do, captain?" Helicopter says. Her name is Dee, but her call sign is Helicopter. She's the woman on the cover of the XCOM recruitment leaflet Lewis had been looking at in Flax's office. That photo is a few years old, but Helicopter did well to last that long. She's just as scary as she looks, although she couldn't be more the opposite. She's bright and bubbly and Lewis feels like she's a little crazy, too. Then again, Lewis is convinced everyone here is crazy. 

Lewis comes back to the situation at hand. All the soldiers have cameras on their helmets, and it's hooked up to the monitors in the bridge. This way, Lewis can see everything going on. He can see the sectoid investigating, through the long grass and the aching summer heat.

Lewis looks at Tom. "Can we risk a grenade? Or will we hurt the ship too much?" Lewis bites his lip. If he fucks up, it's on him. "Dee— Helicopter— do you think you could make the shot? Trott, could you do it?" 

"I have no line of sight." Trott says. "I could move, but there's chance I could be seen. There's another one towards the back and if I move, he'll shoot me." 

Dee cuts in. "I could make the shot, definitely, but he's moving around too much." Her Australian accent cuts through the comms like a knife. 'The Aussie Assassin', she calls herself, and she lives up to the name. Her kill count is through the fucking roof.

The rest of the squad is in or around the Skyranger, too far away to do anything. They could send in a rocket, but that'd blow everything to smithereens. Lewis needs to make a call, though. "Helicopter, throw the grenade. Brace for explosion." 

Everyone holds their breath. Lewis watches on the monitors as she pulls the pin out of the grenade and throws it, overarm, at the alien. There's a second, two seconds, three seconds— then it explodes. The shock makes the grass wave and dance. It takes the smoke a while to clear, but when it does, the sectoid is still there. Bleeding, but alive. Even worse, a low explosion can be heard from inside the alien ship. 

"Great," Tom says, tapping away the ashes of his cigarette, "There goes the navigation controls." 

Lewis grits his teeth. "Okay, start moving forward if safe to do so. Helicopter, Trott, you stay where you are." 

The urge to hit his head against the desk is strong. Lewis is so fucking _stupid_. Of course that wouldn't work. They should've just waited, and someone else could've taken the shot. For fuck's sake. They needed those navigation controls, too. 

One of the chumps, the new guys, creeps up over a hill. With the cover of the grass, he takes a shot. He misses. Of course. Another takes a shot. Another miss. Trott takes a shot at the sectoid he can see, and the thing explodes into a pile of limbs. If only everyone could do that, Lewis thinks. Trott's easily one of their best snipers. Another beat passes and then the sectoid outside the ship takes a shot and then Marcus is dead. 

"This is fucking ridiculous," Lewis groans. "Fucking kill it. I don't care how. Just do it." 

Tom kicks him under the desk. It's only a tap, but Lewis gets the message. He can't just say that. He can't be resigned about this. Lewis can almost fucking hear Tom's words, too. _"What, you only just got here and you're already giving up? Pussy."_ In Lewis' head, his voice is mocking. He sits up straight and takes a deep breath. 

"I can try mind control it," Slim offers. He's in the safety of the Skyranger. Slim is Lalna's guinea pig. Mind control is new, and according to Dr. Lalna, something he'd been wanted to develop for ages. It's clunky and it doesn't work that well, but it's called development for a reason. Only a few soldiers have psi-amps— just the few that passed Dr. Lalna's extensive psychic ability test and actually consented to being a test subject. Side effects are the biggest worry. 

Lewis throws his hands behind his head. "You can try," he says. "If it doesn't work, then, Sapling, you take the shot." 

Both Slim and Sapling answer with "Roger that." Slim presses some buttons on his probe and then his eyes are shut and the sectoid is moving. "Got 'em," Slim says. 

_Thank the lord._ "Walk him into the ship. See if there's any more." 

Slim doesn't answer, instead moves the sectoid. It walks into the ship, which is black and scorched from the explosion. It's empty. That means Slim has the last sectoid. That means they did it. 

Lewis lets out a sigh of relief. "He's the last one. We did it, guys." 

There's a collective whoop from the squad. They start moving in to clear the ship. Someone shoots the last sectoid and they're done. The ship is theirs. Almost everyone survived, too, apart from Marcus. They can't let that happen again. Other than that, though, it was a good mission. They didn't get the navigation controls, but they did get the stash of alien weapons and armour. Not to mention the elerium, which is the weird rock stuff the aliens use to power their ship. XCOM needs it to fuel the new ship they're building. 

Tom presses a hand to Lewis' shoulder. "Well done, Cap. Your first alien encounter." 

Lewis smiles. "You did say it'd be special." 

"And would I lie to you?" Tom says, standing up. "Experience is everything though. You'll get there." 

Tom leaves, gone with his coffee mug in hand. Lewis is left in the bridge. The hologlobe doesn't flicker as much, now that they have some more power capacitors. Lewis thinks about Marcus. They'll have to bury the body, or do something. He'll probably have to do a speech. Marcus was a good kid. He wonders how Marcus felt as he died. Lewis decides not to think about it. 

\- 

Lewis sits on an upturned bucket in the storage room. He unfolds the crumpled note, the words "meet me in the storage beside the armoury" almost mocking him. There is no one here to meet him. Lewis doesn't know how long he should wait before leaving. 

Suddenly, though, the door is moving and Ben is there. He's out of breath and red faced. He turns a bucket upside down and sits on it, next to Lewis. He fishes a protein bar out of his pocket and starts munching. 

Lewis can only watch, since everything happens in the span of thirty seconds. "Ben," he says, when they're settled. Ben chews through his protein bar. 

"Lewis," he says. "Executive meeting." 

"What?" 

Ben gestures at them, in the storage room. The walls are lined with shelves full of all sorts of things. Lewis spots a bottle of turpentine and thinks of Turps. "We're having an executive meeting. You know, business and stuff." 

Lewis shakes his head, but he can't shake away his smile. "Yeah, business. And I bet you only came here to get away from all those engineers of yours." 

Ben grins, taking another bite of his bar. "I thought we needed to talk through things, you know, properly." He isn't smiling now, instead waiting for Lewis to answer. 

Lewis knows this is a...touchy subject. "I guess," he replies. He bites his lip. "I just...I— I don't know. It was hard without you. Especially after you died, or whatever." 

"There's two sides to every story, though, right? We both found it hard." 

Lewis looks at the ground. "We're not the people we were all those years ago, though." He sighs. “You just— you should’ve told me you were alive.” 

Lewis tries to ignore how suddenly Ben’s jaw is set. Tension stretches across his shoulders. “You don’t understand,” Ben says. There’s no joking or humour in his voice “You don’t understand what it was like.” 

“Well then fucking enlighten me.” The words come out too hard and fast, and Lewis regrets them almost immediately. Ben doesn’t react, at least not straight away. Instead he takes his empty protein bar wrapper and folds it into neat little squares. Lewis is on this track now, though, and there’s no going back. “What, did they probe you? Up the ass, right? Guess you never needed me when you had an alien to stick shit up your ass instead.” 

They sit in silence. Lewis never stuck anything up Ben’s ass— definitely not his dick— but to Lewis, it felt like they were more than friends, all those years ago. Not romance, not exactly, but just…they took a comfort in each other that they couldn’t find in other people. Lewis doesn’t know what it was, but it left him aching after Ben 'died'. 

Ben doesn’t react, even to Lewis’ taunts. Instead, he slips the folded wrapper into his pocket and clasps his hands in his lap. “Do you know what they did to us?” He murmurs. “Do you really want to know?” 

Lewis fidgets with his hands. He shouldn’t have said what he’s said. But Ben should’ve reacted— he should’ve stood and shouted and screamed and yelled. It almost makes Lewis’ skin crawl. This isn’t how this conversation is supposed to go. It's not _real_. 

Lewis doesn’t answer and Ben continues. “Every few days, they would pick someone out. Strap them to a table and examine them. Chop them up and stick them full of needles. Do you know what happened if you resisted? Laser rifle to the brain. Livestock, Lewis. We were livestock.” 

Lewis swallows. His mouth is dry. Ben is still going, still talking. Lewis regrets saying anything in the first place. 

“I only survived because I kept quiet. They took the healthy, the sick, the young and the old. They wanted a full profile of human life in all its stages and growths. You know the worst thing? We were forced to watch it all. We had to watch as they experimented on the people we fought with, Lewis. You remember our captain? He was one of the first to go.” 

"Mulligan?" 

"Yeah. Mulligan." 

Mulligan was more muscle than he was anything else. Deadly with a gun, deadly without. Jesus. He was a sweet guy, too. Big and stupid, but a good heart. He must’ve fought hard. 

“Mulligan didn’t even fight,” Ben says. “No one did.” 

Lewis squeezes the bridge of his nose. He’s learned his lesson. He doesn’t want to hear any more. “I’m sorry you went through that.” Lewis doesn’t know what else to say. 

Ben scoffs, but it’s sarcastic and harsh. “Hm, a far cry from anal probes, right.” The words are softer than they should be. They should be thunder and lightning and all the other things Ben is when he’s angry. Instead, they’re tired. Ben just seems tired. His shoulders slump. 

Lewis rubs his hands over his face. “I shouldn’t have said what I said." 

“Think before you run your mouth, Commander.” The words are too soft. They’re too gentle. They make Lewis’ heart contort in painful ways. Ben runs a hand through his hair. “How is it, anyway? Commanding must be different.” 

He’s changing the subject. Lewis doesn’t say anything about it. “It’s a lot of weight to carry,” he says. 

“What do you think of Tom?” 

Lewis rubs his eyes. “Tom? He’s nice. Quiet. His scar is cool.” 

“He said just about the same about you.” 

“You talk?” That gets Lewis’ interest. He didn’t know Tom and Ben even knew each other existed. 

Ben hums. He looks washed out. “Yeah. We helped each other out a few years ago. He loved me so much he thought he’d stick around.” 

Lewis squints. “How did he get the scar?” 

Ben’s eyes widen. “Oh, he didn’t tell you? He bought the wrong girl a drink in SoHo once. She was part of a crime mob that wanted government missile codes or something. Tom ended up with one eye and the crime mob ended up in prison. Something to that effect, anyway.” 

Lewis doesn’t even try to hide how confused he is. Tom said he got mauled by a bear, not something about crime mobs and Soho. He shakes his head. Obviously, Ben must be in on the joke. Lewis shakes his head again and leans back. He stretches his arms above his head. 

"Whatever," Lewis says. "I don't know how he got his scar but I'll find out. One way or another." 

Ben smiles, and thankfully it's not so forced. "Yeah, good luck with that." 

They lapse into silence. It's comfortable, though. These days, there aren't many moments where Lewis can experience silence. There's always someone saying something, or someone looking for something, or aliens that need killing. Now, though, in this storage cupboard, the easy company feels like heaven.


	2. Chapter 2

Lewis is ghosting his fingers over the barrels of the laser pistols in the armoury when he comes across Helicopter and Chou. They're sat around the small desk at the end of the room, which is used for stocktaking. They’re covered in bathrobes and have towels wrapped around their heads. When Lewis catches sight of them, he doesn't quite know what to do. He freezes. 

Helicopter looks over Chou's shoulder, right at Lewis. She breaks into a smile and Lewis feels like a deer stuck in the headlights. 

"Commander!" She calls. "Come sit down!" 

Lewis shrugs. He's been caught, and it's not like he was doing anything with his downtime anyway. Well, he was Reminiscing and Being Nostalgic, and there is something invasive about having that interrupted. However, he pulls up a chair and joins them around the desk. He can see now that they're painting each other's nails. 

"Commander," Chou says. She's the woman Tom was talking to on Lewis' first night. She's their heavy gunner, and god, is she good. Lewis hasn't spoken to her properly before. Something about her quiet nature and her general _vibe_ makes her seem intimidating. Lewis hasn’t spoken to her one-on-one before. Her voice twangs and twinges— her accent is strange. Nice to listen to, but strange. Lewis doesn't think to ask where she's from. 

"Helicopter, Chou," Lewis replies, settling himself. "What are you doing and why are you doing it here?" 

Helicopter cackles. It further cements Lewis' opinion that she's fucking crazy. "Girls' night!" She sets down what looks like fifty billion bottles of nail polish on the desk. "We paint our nails and do facemasks and stuff. Do you want your nails painted?" 

She doesn't give Lewis much of a choice, though, as she grabs his hand. Lewis doesn't really know what's going on anymore. It's all a flurry of movement and suddenly Lewis has a sheet facemask on his face and his nails are being filed. 

"Why— why here, though? Surely, like, the common room or your bunks or something, you know, would be better." 

Chou shrugs. "We like to be close to the guns." She nods at the racks of weapons lining the walls. 

Lewis ignores how psychopathic her sentence sounded and turns his attention back to Helicopter, who is sloppily painting Lewis' nails a vibrant shade of orange. When she's finished one hand, she looks at Lewis with an unfamiliar sense of seriousness. "If you smudge that, I will kill you," she says. Lewis decides not to find out if she's joking. 

Chou, who had been reading a magazine, sets it down on the table. "Do you want me to read your future?" She asks. She pulls a pack of tarot cards out of...somewhere. 

Helicopter, who picks up the magazine, rolls her eyes. "Here we go." 

Lewis shrugs. "I don't believe in tarot. I think it's a load of— well, bullshit." 

Helicopter gives him a look, as if to say _good luck_. Chou sighs at the words and shakes her head. "It's not bullshit," she says. "It's just interesting and fun and nobody else will do it with me." 

Lewis smiles. She reminds him of an insolent toddler. "Okay, fine. Just this time." 

Chou grins, the first time Lewis has actually seen her smile. It’s toothy, but genuine. She pulls the cards out of their box and shuffles them. She draws the first card, laying it down in front of Lewis. It shows a skeleton on horseback, flying a black and white flag. The word 'DEATH' sits just below the picture. He looks at Chou. This sure is off to a great start. 

She seems to sense his apprehension, though. "Don't worry!" She says, setting down the cards. "You're not going to die!" Lewis raises his eyebrows. "I promise you're not going to die. No, death means, like, change. Rebirth. The start of something new." 

Lewis nods. That makes sense. "Okay...next?" 

"Relax. We need good energy." She draws the next card, laying it down below the card. "Ace of Cups— that's like, compassion and love. It's a symbol of fulfilment, I think. Spiritually and emotionally." 

Lewis sighs. He knew he was right to be sceptical about this stuff. "Let me guess, I'm going to fall in love." 

Chou rolls her eyes. "You don't understand. Tarot isn't telling your future, it's just guiding you. And none of it is concrete, either. You can change the path you're on." She draws the next card. It sits next to the Ace of Cups. This card is a knight charging into battle on a stallion. Lewis likes the artwork. 

"Knight of Swords," she says. "Ambitious, but blind." 

Next card— Ten of Wands. The end of a cycle, she says, but the beginnings of a new one. Lewis rolls his eyes. "So what does it _mean?_ " 

Chou gathers up the cards. "That's for you to figure out." She looks at him solemnly, and Lewis holds the gaze. She pats his hand. "It'll be alright. Don't you worry, little Commander." 

Lewis doesn't know how he feels about being called _little_ — he is not little, he is the Commander of the XCOM operative and he should not be referred to as little— but her words carry such sympathy that Lewis is almost shocked. She sits back, slipping the deck of cards into the pocket of her bathrobe. 

Helicopter, who'd witnessed their whole affair with half-assed interest, narrows her eyes. Her legs were propped up on the desk as she flicked through her magazine, but now she sits up. "Did you— did you smudge his fucking nail polish?" 

Lewis looks at his hands. Every nail is ruined, the nail polish smudged and warped. Chou laughs, dark and low. Helicopter just grabs the bottle of nail polish remover and Lewis' hands with unnecessary force. A storm brews on her face.

\- 

Time passes quicker than Lewis expects. He does missions, plays poker, gets to know the crew. He even begins to build up his own little stash of Doritos. Somewhere along the line, Ben starts joining Lewis and Tom in the bridge for missions. The attacks have been getting worse, and they need all the help they can get. They're not just dealing with sectoids anymore. Instead, it's chryssalids— weird robot spiders that lay eggs in your chest— and mutons, who are just as bad as Lewis remembers. Mutons— big purple humanoids, strong and made to kill. Thankfully, they’re about as intelligent as a rock. It's tough. They lose more people than they should. It weighs heavy in the back of Lewis' mind. 

Lewis leans against a desk, mug in hand. Dr. Lalna, their head scientist, stands across from Lewis. Blond curls frame his face, undeterred by the goggles resting on his forehead. He's a big guy. Lewis wonders just how XCOM enticed him here in the first place. 

"So you'll have the psi-amps by Thursday?" Lewis says, raising his eyebrows. He shifts his weight from one foot to another. They're in Dr. Lalna's office, which is dusty and unused. 

Dr. Lalna nods. "You can start rolling them out immediately." He pauses. "Psi-amp is a stupid name." 

Lewis smiles. He does like Dr. Lalna. "Well, what do you suggest?" 

Dr. Lalna blinks. It takes a while for him to answer. "In an ideal world, we would just stick some microchips in everyone's brains, and they'd be able to use mind control and use it. That's easy to name, you know. Mindmicros or something. These things, though—" He gestures at the paperwork Lewis has for the psi-amps— "are expensive and awkward and heavy." He shakes his head, resigned. "I don't know what we call them." 

"A nerd probe," Lewis says. "You know, because nerds use them to probe aliens." 

Dr. Lalna's mouth tugs into a frown, but he nods his head. "It works." 

It's midst the alien encounters and the sleepless downtime that Lewis gets to know Dr. Lalna. He's detached from the rest of the crew, instead caging himself in his labs instead of facing everyone else. Lewis can understand, too. 

Lalna told him about their developments in genetic modification— they've tested it, and it seems they're able to rewrite genetic makeup. Lalna says they can use to make recruits invincible against poison, fire, anything. They can beef people up like cows, or increase their psychic strength, if they wanted too. The idea makes Lewis uncomfortable, though. What right do they have to change people’s genes? Who would be so committed to the cause they’d allow their very DNA be changed? Instead, he asks if Lalna can modify Lewis' makeup so he won't be allergic to nuts. Lalna tells him they're still in the experimental stages. 

Lewis thinks of the time he'd made the mistake of standing in as Dr. Lalna interrogated a sectoid leader. Lewis won't admit it, but he felt pity for the creature. The screeches echoed through the room and it took weeks for the clean-up crew to get the bloodstains off the wall. Lewis had to leave the interrogation halfway through. Concern grew in Lewis' belly about the look in Dr. Lalna's eyes that day. It's since disappeared, but sometimes it resurfaces, sitting just below the surface.

However, for his hard exterior, Lalna is nothing but a man seeking to do what he feels is right. Lewis finds a kindred spirit there. 

"Have you made any progress with the alien situation?" Dr. Lalna asks. Their conversation is becoming less and less professional. Now, it feels more like a conversation you'd have with an old friend about your cousin's marriage. Lewis doesn't mind, though. Sometimes, professionalism suffocates him. 

Lewis scratches his nose. "We're hearing this word, over and over again. We don't know what to do about it. It could be their launch codes, or their home planet, or maybe it's their word for ‘bastard’. All we can do is record everything we hear over the different radio frequencies and hope the information is useful." 

Dr. Lalna blinks. He folds his arms and unfolds them again. "What word?" 

"Arx . Do you know it?" 

Silence falls between them quietly. The doctor seems to be putting an awful lot of thought into his answer. "No," he concludes, after a solid few seconds of thinking. "It sounds a lot like Latin, though. Have you tried that?" 

Lewis shrugs. "We've tried everything, Doctor. No leads." 

"We'll just have to wait and see. I'm sure it'll be useful, don't worry, Commander." 

"I'm not worrying. Just concerned." 

"You know, some people would argue those mean the same thing." 

Lewis glares at him, although it's not entirely serious. "Thankfully, neither of us are those people.” 

\- 

"You sure you don't want a smoke?" Tom asks. 

Lewis gives him a tight smile. "I told you, I gave up." 

Tom shrugs, blowing smoke up towards the light fixture. It clouds the light bulb before dissipating into nothing. They're in Lewis' room. A plaque saying 'CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS' is nailed to the outside of the door. Lewis doesn't know why it says captain when he's commander, but he doesn't ask questions. 

The room itself is almost childish, with its chunky dressers and XCOM posters tacked up on the wall. Lewis can't quite remember how he and Tom ended up here. Something about Lewis taking the night shift to watch the hologlobe and falling asleep. Tom found him, or something, and here they are. Sitting on the floor of Lewis' bedroom, smoking, like teenagers. It feels like it belongs in another life. 

"God, you fucking stink," Lewis says, batting Tom away as he tries to blow smoke into Lewis' face. "You'll have my room reeking of cigarettes." 

Tom scoffs. He taps the ashes away into an ashtray. "Not my fault you had to be escorted to your room." 

"Not my fault you decided to escort me!" 

Tom's elbow digs into Lewis' side. "And it's not my fault that you're incapable of falling asleep in your own bed! You have an office, you know. Like, if you're going to fall asleep somewhere, it'd be better in your office than the bridge. At least people can't see you in your office." 

Lewis sighs. "I know, I know. Sleep is hard to come by. How have you managed so long?" 

Lewis doesn't mention how he wakes up in a cold sweat every night, dread worming its way through his veins. Images of Ben, the jungle, the Skyranger, Tom, plasma lasers, sectoids, funerals— they sear themselves into Lewis' eyelids every night. He doesn't mention how he loses sleep more than he gains. 

Tom smiles as he pulls another cigarette out of his battered carton. Lewis doesn't even know where he gets them all from, especially since he's always smoking. "That's easy. A whole lot of caffeine mixed with the general stress of saving the world." 

"That's fair enough," Lewis replies, shrugging. There's silence for a moment before he speaks again. "Would you ever smoke cigars?" 

Tom chuckles. He takes a big long drag of his cigarette and shakes his head. "What, and look like Fidel Castro or something?" 

Lewis snorts. "You're already halfway there, you know, with the beard and everything." His eyes water from all the smoke. 

"Great. I love being compared to dictators. You know, there are people out there who write their own homebrew slash fanfiction about Stalin and Hitler." 

If Lewis had a drink, he would spit it out. Instead, though, he laughs, but the breath gets caught in his chest and he's sent into a fit of spluttering. The smoke floating around doesn't help, either. It's when there's tear tracks down his face and he's spent an ungodly amount of time coughing that it finally stops. 

"That can't be real," Lewis says, wiping away the tears. His throat is like sandpaper, and his voice sounds like it. "God, I sound like I just got throatfucked." 

Tom barks out a laugh. "People write fanfiction about Hitler and Stalin throatfucking each other!" 

"Do you _read_ it?" 

Tom coughs on his own smoke. "No," he says. "I would never—" 

Lewis can't help the eye roll. He doesn't believe a word of it. "Right. I'm sure you wouldn't." 

"No— see, people would probably write fanfiction about _us_ , if they knew about us. People write fanfiction about everything these days. It's just— it's just normal." 

Lewis shakes his head. "Thank god. I think I would— I think I would die if people wrote fanfiction about us. It's one thing to, you know, have a relationship or whatever, but other people doing that and writing stories—" 

"Don't call them stories. That makes them sound so childish." 

"Well—" 

"No! You don't understand. People write fanfiction, like, the length of novels. And usually, they're better than novels, too. It's just— not childish." 

Lewis laughs, throwing his head back and _laughing_. "You're fucking ridiculous. I bet you fucking write fanfiction, too." 

Tom's neck flushes. Lewis, still laughing, points. Tom flushes darker. "I don't—" 

"You do! I bet you do!" 

"No!" 

It doesn't take long for them to dissolve into giggles. Lewis leans his head on Tom's shoulder, heaving through the smoke and the laughter. Tom smells like cigarettes and his lemon shampoo. They sit like that, on the floor, smoking, for god knows how long. Between the giggles and the tobacco and the citrus, there's a content running through Lewis' veins that he hasn't felt in a long time. 

\- 

Lewis wakes up one morning to find everyone eating croissants. They're everywhere, flakes of pastry trailing all around the place. Lewis snags one from the mess hall before they're all gone. Of course, the buttery heaven-filled croissant is left forgotten when there's an alien attack on a small town to the east. Lewis flies into the bridge, almost running full force into Tom. 

"Tom!" He says. "The attack— be careful, I could've dropped my croissant!" 

Tom throws his hands up. "Jesus— sorry— the team's getting ready now. I supplied everyone. We're all good to go, are you—" 

Lewis steps past him, putting his plate down on the desk as he sits down in his chair. The monitors all flicker to life, showing the inside of the Skyranger as the team flies out. Moments later, Tom is sitting down next too. Lewis rubs his thumbnail with his index finger. 

"Give me the full report. What happened?" Lewis says. Tom brings up a grainy image of a sleepy town on the outskirts of the city. He flicks through the pictures— dirty, dark streets dotted with shops and businesses. Lewis can imagine it perfectly from the pictures. A shithole town where everyone wants to leave but no one ever does. 

"Terror mission," Tom mutters, hands flying across the keyboard as he inputs commands. The words turn Lewis cold. Terror missions— attacks on civilian-heavy areas. Notorious for their high death count and low kill count. Loss of innocent life is bad, of course, but it brings XCOM's ratings down. 

Tom nods his head. There's an anxious energy between them. Lewis has never commanded a terror mission before. "A ship flew in around 1130 hours. It looks like chyrssalids and sectoids. Our eyes on the inside reported sectoids in mechs, too, before we, uh, lost our eyes on the inside." 

Lewis bites the inside of his cheek, nodding. "Mechtoids, yeah." 

"What?" 

"Sectoids in mechs. Mectoids." 

Tom shrugs. "Anyway. We can't tell what their purpose is. All we have to do is go in there and kill the aliens. And keep the civilians alive. The more innocents die, the less funding we get, so..." 

Lewis eyes his croissant, sitting abandoned and uneaten on the desk. "No funding means no croissants. Are they taking prisoners or killing people?" He means to ask about why there is a sudden influx of croissants, but the thought gets lost amongst the general terror of everything else going on. 

Tom sighs. "Unclear. It looks like both, honestly.” 

Lewis nods, curt and serious. “What’s your status, Hornby?” 

Hornby sounds distant even through the comms. “Just landing now,” he says. “Ready when you are, sir.” 

Lewis rolls his eyes. Everyone calling him ‘sir’ makes it sound so official. Lewis doesn’t like it. He presses his comms earpiece further into his ear. “Everyone, roll out. Alien terror attack in progress. Strong civilian presence, take care to avoid civilian casualties. Failure will have severe political consequences for XCOM. Let's get this over with." 

Lewis watches on the helmet cams as the back of the Skyranger opens and everyone files out. Their power armour is silver, strips of bright blue running underneath. The XCOM logo sits loud and proud on the chest plate. Everyone carries a weapon of some sort. Trott steps out, sniper rifle in hand. Chou pulls up the back, her blaster bomb launcher heavy on her shoulder. Everyone immediately runs into cover. Something about the sight makes Lewis’ heart pang. Growing pains aside, they’re still a well-oiled machine. 

"Can I have your croissant?" Tom asks, nodding at Lewis' croissant. 

Lewis doesn't understand why he's asking this in the middle of a fucking terror mission. Right now, Lewis doesn't give a shit about his fucking croissant. He shrugs. "Yeah, sure." 

“Two chryssalids sighted,” a chump calls. His name is Carter. Lewis doesn't know him too well— he doesn't socialise much with the chumps since they keep to themselves— but he's a good kid. Too young to be out risking his life. Cars are strewn everywhere. They make for easy but dangerous cover, but it’s easy to see the chryssalids legs crawling beneath them. The Skyranger landed at the bottom of a boulevard, and up ahead the aliens are swarming. A big fat cargo lorry is turned over at the end of the street. 

Lewis gnaws on his bottom lip. "Wait a moment. See if we can sight some more. If any get too close, then let me know and take the shot. Got it?" 

A beat passes, then two, then three. There's a tall humanoid figure peeping up over a burnt out car. Lewis squints. He can't tell with the grainy picture from the helmet cams, but he doesn't recognise the alien. He looks at Tom, looks back at the monitor. 

"What the fuck is that?" He asks. He regrets the words immediately afterwards. He has to keep everything under control. If Lewis gets spooked, it will only serve to lower morale and make the team nervous. After all, the last thing you need is a shaky hand when you can kill an alien or kill a teammate. 

Next to him, Tom lights a cigarette. "Nobody knows. Reports from the Japan base say it’s like, metal skeletons or something." 

Lewis swallows. He gives Tom a nervous look. "Arx?" 

Tom shrugs. Lewis turns back to the screens. "Right— don't go near that thing yet. Just sit tight for a while." He watches as sectoids patrol the street. There's the oversized shadow of a muton in the distance. The unknown alien sticks its head up again, raising its arm in a strange motion. A plasma grenade lands smack in the middle of the team. It hisses as it sucks in energy. There's a flash of blue light and an explosion. It rattles through the air, electricity crackling as the grenade goes off. The area goes up in a mushroom cloud of grey smoke. Three of the helmet cams flicker to black. 

Lewis leans forward. He bites the tip of his knuckle. "Guys, headcount. Who's here?" 

Lewis counts as he hears back eight responses. Four don’t answer. Judging by the vitals built into the body armour, three people are dead. That doesn't explain the fourth silence— judging by their roll call, Carter is missing. 

"Carter?" Tom calls. 

Lewis looks at Tom. They have a silent conversation— _what do I do?_ Lewis asks. _You know what to do_ , Tom says, vocalizing his answer in a nod and a jerk of the head. 

“Carter— if you can hear this— let us know where you are. Get somewhere safe if you can. Everyone else, keep your eyes peeled. Trott, keep back and stay safe. Hercules, stick down some stims. Chou, wait until there’s at least three grouped together and take your shot.” 

Lalna recently developed combat stims— a spray that does the equivalent of a cigarette. Steadies the hand, clears the mind, improves fighting. Lewis remembers he still has questions about them— are they addictive? Side effects? But they’re left forgotten as the team battles the barrage of lasers flying at them. 

Lewis can’t help the slow boil of anxiety in the pits of his stomach. If they fuck this up— if sometime goes wrong— they’ve already lost three people, maybe four. They can’t afford to lose this. 

The red laser shots from the enemy’s laser rifles cut through the remaining smoke from the plasma grenade. They ping off the metal of the burnt out cars and singe the brickwork of the surrounding buildings. 

Bottlehead aims his gun over his head and shoots. A sectoid goes down. Somewhere further away, there’s the dying screech of a chryssalid. The strange new alien, the unknown, is nowhere to be seen. 

There’s a ping of plasma against metal, then the burn of plasma against skin over the comms. “I’m down, I’m down,” Trott says, exasperated. He grips his lower arm where it hit him. Lewis can see all the blood everywhere on Trott’s helmet cam. 

No. No. They can’t lose Trott. If they lose him, then they lose one of their best snipers. Trott is— he’s part of the team. Some of the derperation leaks through into Lewis’ voice, though, despite his frantic efforts to stop it. “Trott— how did it get through your armour? Hercules, start healing. Please. Quick!” 

Lewis watches as Hercules, a scrawny Irish boy, scampers over to where Trott is sitting, clutching his arm. The blood congeals on the cold metal of his body armour. 

Lewis can feel the tension rise up between the team now. They’re all struggling, combat stims or not. Chou barely avoids getting a hole burned in her head by a plasma cannon. A _stomp-stomp_ echoes down the street as the muton decides to intervene. 

“Grenade,” Lewis says, “two sectoids to the west. We can do this." 

“Commander, no, the cars— grenades aren’t—“ Tom almost bangs his hands down on the desk. He looks worried. Purple and blue stain the skin beneath his eyes like a watercolour painting. Tired. Tom looks tired. If the team weren’t on the edge of dying, Lewis would ask him if he’s alright. 

Something about his words bring up a flash of indignation in Lewis, however. Tom isn’t the commander. He doesn’t call the shots. Maybe he did, or he wanted to, but Lewis is in charge. 

Beneath that, though, there’s a different feeling. It sits wrong in Lewis’ chest, heavy and unwanted. He always does what Tom says. Takes Tom’s advice, asks Tom’s opinion. Tom may not run missions, but he certainly runs a lot of other things. But Lewis isn’t Tom— he’s not a copycat. Lewis doesn’t just take all Tom’s orders and carry them out. No, he’s his own person. He makes his own decisions. 

He can hear Jeffreys hesitate over the comms, grenade in hand. “Throw it, Jefferson,” Lewis says, inflating his voice with as much authority as possible. He needs to keep this going. He needs them to believe they can do this, even if they can’t. It’s only after he says it that he realised he got Jeffreys’ name wrong. Lewis makes a mental note to apologise later, if the team makes it back. If Jeffreys makes it back. If Lewis remembers, which he won’t. 

At the words, Tom leans back in his chair away from the screens. He throws his hands back, rolling his eyes to heaven. Lewis understands. He’s responsible for this. He didn’t do what Tom told him to do. It’s his own fault if it goes wrong. But wasn’t it always Lewis’ fault if it goes wrong? 

Jeffreys shrugs and rolls the grenade down the street. A moment passes. There’s the tell-tale hiss, and the boom, and the wet sounds as alien limbs get separated from alien bodies. There’s a second hiss, though. The cargo truck, lopsided on the road. It hisses, a plume of smoke rising up over the mushroom cloud from the grenade. Another moment passes. The cargo lorry explodes into a fireball, engulfed entirely as flames lick the sides. 

"Boss—" Someone calls. It's Hercules, panic-stricken as the battlefield freezes to watch the fire engulf the truck. "Boss, that's a..." 

"Spit it out, leprechaun." 

"That's not just a truck, that's a fucking oil tanker—" 

Lewis' heart drops. A scream echoes from the building on the left. Lewis forgot about the civilians. The people they were here to save. He looks at Tom, quickly, looks back at the monitors. They need to get out. 

"Hornby. Evac, now. We can't risk it—" 

Hornby's voice is full of static and concern. "I'll try, Commander." 

Big black plumes of smoke billow out from the oil tanker like ink dropped in water. It's thick— any second now, it could explode. The aliens— the fucking aliens— are still firing. Everyone ducks back into cover. Lasers slice through the air as there's another scream. Definitely civilian. 

The air is disturbed as Hornby flies in with the Skyranger. It messes with the smoke, which gets thicker and stronger and more worrying by the second. The fire is getting bigger. This is a lost cause. They have to go. They can't stay. Everyone will die if that thing explodes. These narrow streets will not take well to a literal fireball. They need to go. 

"I can't get in any further," Hornby calls over the noise. Lewis tries his best to ignore the harrowing screams and the aliens firing their laser rifles. "Too dangerous," he continues, but his voice is broken up. 

Tom nudges Lewis' side. Time to go. "Everyone, evac. Stay safe. Get to the Skyranger. This one is over." 

Lewis ignores how a few look back. He ignores the face of a mother and child, on the fourth floor of a building to the right. He ignores how they're leaving their own dead to be destroyed. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat. This is the right thing. He's doing the right thing. He is doing the right thing. 

\- 

They lose five people. Carter is left behind, along with one other chump. They gained no new information. They saved no civilians. The oil tanker explodes as the Skyranger takes off. It rattles the propellers and singes the metal plates. Lewis tells himself it was the right thing to do. 

\- 

Lewis finds Tom beneath the east stairs. He's huddled in the corner, next to a cardboard box. Lewis wouldn't have passed any remarks if it weren't for the…noises Tom’s making. Had something happened? Was Tom in trouble? Lewis approaches with caution. "Tom?" He asks. 

Tom whips around, eyes wide. He relaxes, barely, when he sees who it is. "Oh, Lewis." 

Lewis squints, looking at the cardboard box, where the more odd noises are coming from. Tom twists around so he’s blocking Lewis’ view. He looks like a child with his hand stick in the cookie jar. "What have you got there, friend?" 

Tom swallows. "Nothing." 

"Tom?" 

"Nothing. Promise." 

"Bullshit. What's in the box?" 

Tom bites his lip. He reaches into the cardboard box and pulls out a fucking rat. Even worse, it's nibbling on Lewis' croissant. 

“ _What the fuck_ ," Lewis says. 

"No! Stop. It's my rat. His name is Stanley." 

Lewis can't believe this. There's a strict ban on pets. Looking past that, though, a rat? 

"Tom— why? What—" 

Tom holds the rat close to his chest. "I found him. He was starving. What else was I supposed to do?" The indignation is palpable.

Lewis throws his hands up and leaves. He can't believe it. No wonder Tom has been sneaking food into his pockets wherever he can. 

\- 

When XCOM parties, it _parties_. 

Lewis doesn't think he's ever witnessed such a spectacle in all his life. It's Halloween, and it's time for the annual Halloween party. Everyone is dressed up. Smith, Trott and Hornby— who also brought the alcohol— are dressed as cowboys. Tom and Ben arrive as a duo, both with pirate hats and eye patches. Helicopter has a weird, homemade papier mâché helicopter she made herself. It's bright yellow, and while the thought is there, something about it is just...deformed. 

Turps is a racing car driver, fitted out in a red, too-tight jumpsuit with black and white stripes down the sides. He looks ridiculous. He doesn't mistake his vodka for turpentine this time, thank god. Instead, he gets progressively more outrageous as the night goes on. "Work hard, play hard!" He yells from the pool table. It seems to be his favourite place. He only likes to stand on it to make up for the fact he's shorter than most other people. 

There's something about the volume of bodies and alcohol, though, which makes Lewis' chest swell. He yells and screams with the rest of them. About halfway through the night, Chou appears. Of course, she's dressed in full-body, skin-tight green bodysuit. She has a mask, too, like Spiderman, except it's an alien mask. She's dressed as a sectoid. It takes a long time for Lewis to stop laughing. 

Lewis, himself, actually forgot there was a fancy dress party. Instead, he walks around in his normal, off-work clothes and tells everyone he's dressed as some poxy Commander. It gets a few laughs. Lewis moves around with a glass of gin and the night is set. 

He finds Ben and Tom conversing in the corner quietly— something along the lines of “And then she said told me she was only bein’ with me fer me hook!” and “Aye, matey, sure any pirate would want you for yer hook. ‘Tis a fine hook you have there, cap’n.” 

When they see him coming, they fill his glass full of booze and sit him down. He’s greeted with two “Ahoy!”s. Ben sticks his pirate hat on Lewis’ head. 

“You be a pirate, now, master,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “An alien killing cap’n! A space pirate, you be now!” 

Tom raises his glass. “Cheers to the space cap’n!” 

The room goes silent, and then erupts into a chorus of “Space cap’n!” 

Suddenly the crowds part like the Red Sea. Trott stands there, flanked by Smith and Hornby. They all tip their hats. Their scarves flutter, even though there’s no wind. 

Trott takes a toothpick out of his mouth. “There ain’t no room for pirates in this town.” The words carry a silent weight. Lewis swears a tumbleweed rolls by, but maybe it’s just the alcohol. 

Tom, who was already standing up, turns to face the cowboys. “Are ye city slickers lookin’ for a fight?” 

Trott looks up. His eyes are cold hard steel. “Maybe we are,” he says, pulling his plastic Colt .45 out of its holster. 

“Fools!” Ben exclaims, getting up off his seat. He holds out his fake hook hand. “Scurvy dogs!” 

Hornby and Smith step forward. They’re forming a firing line. All three pistols are raised. Tom and Ben pull out their foam cutlasses. 

“You boys couldn’t show a hen to cluck,” Hornby exclaims. There’s a big whisper from the crowd in response. Hornby is breaking out the big insults for this. Nobody says things like that. It’s downright offensive. “Get ready to meet your maker!” 

Triggers are about to be pulled and cutlasses are about to be used when Lewis interferes. He jumps up in between the two parties. “Stop!” He yells. “I won’t allow this! Pirates and cowboys can live in peace!” 

Smith stomps his feet. “But pard, they have hooks!” 

Tom brandishes his sword. “Cap’n, they’re allowed pistols! I always wanted a pistol, me did.” 

Lewis throws his hands up. "You can all have hooks and pistols! Just— I don't fucking know. Pistols and hooks for everyone!" Lewis regrets his words almost immediately. They'll have to order in plastic hooks and pistols for everyone, and—

Ben claps him on the shoulder. "Cheers to the cap'n!" 

Trott raises his glass. "To the Sheriff!" 

Lewis has no idea what's going on anymore, but he raises his glass and drinks with the rest of them. 

\- 

Tom sticks his head in Lewis' office door. Lewis, who'd been procrastinating work for the past half hour, picks his head up off his desk. "Brindley. There's an incoming transmission from Flax." 

Lewis rubs the sleep from his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. "Transmission?" 

"It's a Skype call, pretty much. Make sure to use all your big words." 

"Big words?" 

"Exactly. See, you've already got the hang of it." Tom smiles. "Be in the bridge, T minus five minutes." 

Lewis is less sleepy when he arrives on the bridge. He'd had the sense to put on his Official Commander Jacket, which is army green and has the XCOM logo embroidered on the breast. Gold stripes wrap around the sleeve cuffs. He even tried to flatten his hair but it didn't work. It never works. His hair doesn't like to be flattened. 

Flax is on the big monitor that's stretched across the back wall. He's standing, dressed in his full military uniform. Lewis feels underdressed, compared to Flax, who has his epaulettes and all his medals pinned to his chest. There's a cap covering his head, too. He probably doesn't want to show that he's a big baldo. Pussy. 

"Brindley." 

"Flax." Lewis winces as Tom kicks him in the ankle. Lewis tries to return the gesture but he's cut off when Pyrion starts speaking. 

"Brindley. You know how I told you about the council, you know, all the people that fund you and keep you going?" 

Lewis squints. If he tries really hard, he can remember something along those lines. The memory is hazy, though. He can't tell if he's remembering the right thing. Lewis starts picking at the skin around his nails, then stops. He needs to be serious. Official. He's the Commander of the XCOM project. Not some mess who sleeps on his desk— who barely sleeps at all— and is told to use his 'big words'. 

Lewis stands up tall. "I recall you verbally communicating that, yes." He says it with as much confidence as he can muster. Tom elbows him, but it's gentle. It's his way of saying well done, Lewis knows. 

Pyrion nods, solemn as ever. No smiles. "They're ceasing your monetary support. As well— they're unsatisfied with XCOM's performance recently. You have been granted twelve months to improve your performance or else XCOM will be shut down permanently." 

"How could they—" 

Lewis watches as Flax shrugs. "That's your briefing, Commander. Do with that what you will."   
The screen cuts to black. Lewis clenches his fists and turns to Tom, who’s rubbing his eyes. They share a look. Lewis sits down on one of the spinny chairs and shuts his eyes. Tom pulls out a cigarette. 

“Well, _that_ wasn’t good,” Tom says, trying to light his cigarette as quick as possible to reduce the time he’s without a smoke. 

Lewis sighs. He wishes he could have a bath, to try and get rid of the tension plaguing every inch of his body. “Yeah, no shit. So they’re cutting our funding? And now we have a deadline?” 

Tom shrugs. “I guess so.” 

“But surely— we can’t be put on a deadline. That’s not how it works. It’s not like we fucking organise the aliens to appear at certain times on certain days. We can’t _control_ them. We might not get a single attack for the next six months or we might get six attacks tomorrow. There's nothing we can do about it.” 

Tom shakes his head. He leans on the desk next to Lewis, puffing away at his cigarette now that it’s lit. “I know. There’s been a lot more interceptions lately, too, and it’s all chryssalids or mutons. This isn’t going to be easy, Brindley.” 

Lewis sighs again. “You think I thought this was easy?” 

Tom keeps talking. “I heard from the Atlantic base, too, you know the underwater operation? They said that the underwater aliens are coming up out of the water and walking on land. We could be dealing with a bunch of lobster men, too.” 

Lewis wants to scream. “Lobster men? Are you actually shitting me right now? And what, those fucking lizard men, too?" 

Tom gnaws on his bottom lip. "Tasoths, yeah." He's silent for a moment, face creased in thought. "We'll have to buckle down and try and do everything and anything we can." 

"What happens if XCOM gets shut down?" 

Tom takes a long drag of his cigarette. Lewis can see the inhale and the exhale. Tom siphons the smoke out between his lips. "I don't know," he says finally. "We all get disbanded, I guess. Sent our separate ways." 

Lewis blinks, brows furrowed. "We can't let that happen, though. All the people that've died, we can't let them die for nothing. We can't just— we can't just abandon everything we've been doing." 

"God, I need a drink." Tom folds his arms. "We— we won't have a choice, Brindley. If things don't go well, then..." 

Lewis stands up. "No. I won't let everything go to waste. Too many people have died for this to go to waste." 

Tom leaves his cigarette in the ashtray and stands up straight, too. He grabs Lewis' shoulder. "We can do it. 'Specially with you at the helm, capt'n." 

Lewis swallows, nodding. "Let's get this over with." 

\- 

"What do you mean, the Nigerian base has been attacked? What— send a ship over there, pronto—" 

Lewis feels frazzled. He barks out orders left and right— people rush around him like river water through rapids. He stands up, watches on the hologlobe as little dots move around the earth. They're alien ships, buzzing about Africa like bees. The European base in Germany sent help, too, but that might not be enough. They might not get there in time, but any help is still help. 

"Hornby, get the Skyranger— Tom, can you get a squad made up? You know, a mix of people— do you think we'll get there in time? C'mon, people. Action stations!" 

Everything is met with a chorus of _'yes Commander'_ s. Lewis sits down for what feels like the first time in forever. He breathes out. There's a pain in his lower back. His whole body aches. Lewis watches as Tom rushes off towards the hangar. Lewis feels like following him so he can watch the squad as they gear up, but he doesn't feel like moving. Everything's organised, they're sending help— everything should be fine. 

Tom returns, red-faced and harried, cigarette poking from his mouth. Hornby turns on his comms, asking "permission for lift-off?". Lewis nods, forgetting Hornby can't see him. "Permission granted. Report back in ten." 

"Roger that, Commander." 

Lewis rubs the bridge of his nose. He's a migraine coming on. He's never been so stressed in his life. 

"Okay?" Tom asks. He blinks, concern rising on his brow. 

Lewis nods. "Just glad we have this sorted." There's a hand on his shoulder, then. It astounds Lewis sometimes, how easily Tom knows what he needs. The hand is gone, then, and Tom is leaning forward as he squints at one of the monitors. He stops, looks around, then back at the monitor. 

"Lewis—" He says. Lewis snaps to attention. He's hardly ever called Lewis these days— usually it's Commander or Brindley. It's only Ben that calls him Lewis. 

"Tom?" Lewis can't help the crease in his brow. 

Tom turns to look at him. "The radar— it says we're surrounded. But the chances of that are a million to one—" 

"What is this, the fucking Cuban Missile Crisis? We can't be surrounded, they—" 

Lewis' words are cut off by a crash above them. The roof begins to shake, and somewhere the smoke alarms go off. The few people left in the bridge stop, and look up, and then panic breaks out. The lights shut off, a few light bulbs blowing. The monitors switch to black. Electricity's gone. People start running. Tom gets his emergency rifle from his emergency rifle cupboard. Lewis catches as Tom throws him one. There's chaos over the comms— _code red, code red, base invasion underway, secure the— where's the guns? Hornby, do you have— Chou? Where's Chou?_

The comms go down with a pop and a crack. No contact with anyone else. Lewis clicks the safety off his plasma rifle— not that it needs safety— and starts moving. He needs to go. He needs to find Ben.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for needles/syringes.

**_ACT TWO_ **

When Lewis wakes up, he’s chained to the chair he’s sitting on. Cold makes the hair on his arms stand up, and there’s a pain in his neck from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. It wasn’t a natural sleep, though, because everything is too hazy and unfocused. He must’ve been drugged. Trying to remember makes his head hurt. It really fucking hurts. He must’ve hit it off something. His vision burns when he moves too quickly. 

When things finally come into focus, Lewis can see he’s definitely not in the XCOM base. It looks like some sort of containment room, filled with big vats of blue goo. Lewis can’t see from where he’s sitting, but he knows from the XCOM alien containment facilities that it’s cryogenic cooling liquid. This is where they keep their prisoners. It doesn’t explain why Lewis isn’t in one of those vats. If he was, he wouldn’t be here— he wouldn’t be thinking. He wouldn’t be _alive_. 

Across from Lewis, there’s big black storage units. Everything here seems to be smooth black chrome— the walls stretch up forever into the darkness and the floors are covered in a metal mesh. A sectoid leans against the storage blocks. It’s armed with a laser pistol and a belt of grenades. Its big eyes blink and it tilts its head as it watches Lewis. 

“You are awake.” it says, in a warped version of English. The sounds feel foreign in Lewis’ ear. It leaves its pistol down and begins fidgeting with the magazine. “Your little base of operations has been destroyed, as has the other Extra-Terrestrial Combat Unit bases. You will not be leaving here alive.” 

The words bring back vague memories. Flashes of Tom, barking out orders like no tomorrow. Smith, armed to the teeth and ready to fight. Ben, relieved to see Lewis but concern plaguing his features. Mangled screams as the ceiling starts collapsing. The whirr as the second Skyranger started up to evacuate. The crash as a beam falls when Lewis and Ben are leaving. The sight of Ben stuck beneath the three tons of steel. The sound as his leg was crushed. 

Lewis can’t remember what happened next. But now he’s here, talking to an alien while sitting in what seems to be the alien base. Of course, he’s bound and tied. Lewis’ day really couldn’t get any better. Lewis can’t help how he taps his leg on the ground and fidgets with the handcuffs. The base is destroyed. Ben’s leg is gone. This might be the end. 

Lewis takes a deep breath. The base might be destroyed, but Lewis is still alive. One problem at a time. Right now, he needs to get out. 

“I can understand that you are not talkative.” The sectoid, which is taller than Lewis remembers sectoids being, shakes his head. Its skin is silvery, shining in the light. It seems almost moist, though, like a frog. Lewis doesn’t like thinking about it. 

He rattles the handcuffs. They’re too tight. It confirms his thoughts, though. There’s no way he’s getting out of here. 

“Do not do that.” The sectoid gargles. “Those cuffhands are made of fine Martian adamantium. You will not be escaping from here anytime soon.” 

Rationalize, rationalize, rationalize. The last thing Lewis remembers is Ben, so it’s safe to say Ben was the last person who saw Lewis before he was kidnapped. However, at the time, Ben was crushed under a ceiling beam and couldn’t move. If Lewis is lucky, the crew would’ve realised he’s missing by now. A rescue mission is tricky though, and since countless supplies, fuel and weapons could’ve been destroyed, a rescue mission seems unlikely. Of course, this is all assuming the Skyrangers are still intact and working. Even then, the base and the injured probably would be the main concern. Lewis hates it, but it doesn’t seem like he’ll be getting any help out of here. 

He still has unanswered questions, though. How was he knocked out? Why wasn’t he put in a vat of blue goo? What do the aliens even want with him? 

That last question is easier than the others. Lewis, however, doesn’t want to know the answer. For once, he will have to be responsible for himself. He tries to think of everything he knows about manipulation. 

“So…do you come here often?” He asks quietly. His throat feels like sandpaper. It takes a few goes for the words to come out right. When they do, the sectoid tilts its head and folds its arms. When it doesn’t offer an answer, Lewis keeps going. “I thought— I thought you’d have somewhere nicer to keep me. Instead of whatever this place is.” 

The sectoid makes a noise. “Oh yes, Mr. Xephos the Colander, too… sophisticated for the alien storage vats. I am so sorry we do not have a red carpet for you, but it is in the…dry cleaners.” 

Xephos. Lewis hasn’t heard that name in a long time. 

He winces. He hadn’t expected the aliens— let alone the sectoids— to deliver such sick burns. He feels almost like he should apologize. It gives him a foothold, though. Sounds like this sectoid is salty.

Lewis licks his lips. They’re dry and chapped and sore. “I’m surprised it’s only you here. Are sectoids used to do the dirty work?” 

The sectoid squints, its eyes bulging and squeezing. It steps forward towards Lewis. He tries not to visibly jerk back. 

“Do not insult my kind.” It rasps. “The other _species_ … they do not see us as what we are. They think we are _expendable_. They do not see that we are the reason they can do all of this.” It pauses, and Lewis can almost see how it reverts back into professionalism. “When we land, then you will be getting a proper reception from Arx. Do not worry, Mr. Colander, sir. You will get what you deserve.” 

_When we land_. That explains the faintest buzzing Lewis can hear, and the vibration when he puts his feet flat on the ground. Arx, too— Lewis feels like he can’t get away from it. Him? Her? Do aliens even have genders? Lewis doesn’t know. Arx feels like a ghost, a whisper in the wind. Lewis hears about Arx everywhere. Words on the corridor in the base— the destroyed base— or words over the radio. Unavoidable. Always watching. 

Lewis takes another deep breath. He feels like pissing himself. He wonders if there’s less oxygen in here or if he’s just having trouble breathing. “Commander. Not Colander," he says. "You know, I saw something on Reddit about sectoids. Apparently, you're not all you're cracked up to be." 

For fuck's sake. Lewis— he hadn't meant to say that. Manipulating the fucking alien is going _brilliantly._

The sectoid, though, doesn't react. It probably doesn't know what Reddit is. Instead, it steps back and leans against the big storage crates. It crosses its legs. "Apparently humans are not what they are cracked up to be either." 

Lewis bites the inside of his cheek. He rattles his handcuffs again. Even if he could get out of them and get rid of the sectoid, he doesn't know how to get out of...wherever he is. "So," he starts. The words trail off. Lewis doesn't even know what to say, really. He doesn't know what to do. The realization makes his heart pang. He's never been unsure of himself, not when it— not when it was as serious as this. Not when it concerned his actual life. 

He licks his lips again. "What's your name?" 

If he has to wait to be killed, then he may as well humour this sectoid and talk to it. Anything to kill the boredom. Kill the time before Lewis himself is killed. 

"Me?" It asks, tapping a spindly finger to its chest. "I am #100092. I originate from the star HR 0074, from the galaxy NGC 1300." 

"Where is that?" 

"It is sixty million...light-years from here. Pass by Jupiter and you will get there eventually." It uncrosses its arms. It moves forward, close enough to start circling around Lewis' chair. 

"Is it nice? Do you miss it?" Lewis tries not to freeze up. He doesn't want it to think he's scared. Sharks can smell fear, so there's no reason why sectoids can't. 

#100092 trails its fingers around the back of Lewis' chair. "It was not the nicest place. But it was home. I miss my be'nl' and her electrobone pie." 

Lewis raises his eyebrows. The hair on the back of his neck raises, too. His palms are sweaty, but he can't wipe them on his trousers because he's conveniently handcuffed to a chair. He better get something out of this sectoid that'll help him escape. "Your be'nl'?" 

"It is how we say— I do not know the human word. She would be your— milk-feeder." 

_Oh._ "Mother?" 

"Yes. Mother," it purrs. "For XCOM scum, you are different to the others." Its feet slap against the metal floor as it slowly steps around Lewis. 

"What do you mean?" Lewis breathes. He can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The sectoid doesn't even have its gun. There's no reason for him to be so scared. He can hear the sick rattle of its lungs as it breathes, though. The inhale and exhale, the wheezing. 

It stoops down to whisper the words in Lewis' ear. "You do not have the blind patriotism the others have." Lewis can feel its breath on his skin. "You know you will die here." It opens its mouth, flicking its tongue along the shell of Lewis' ear. It feels like a cat's tongue— sandpaper. It leaves a wet residue behind it, though. Lewis swallows as the sectoid continues. 

"There is one difference between my kind and your kind," it mumurs, "Pleasure is not a necessity for us the way it is for you." 

"What do you mean?" Lewis repeats, but it's less of a question this time. It faces Lewis now, and he can see his reflection in its eyes. It doesn't blink. Lewis hopes, he hopes desperately, that he isn't going to get anally probed. He thinks back to Ben— Lewis feels a new level of sympathy for him now. 

The sectoid opens its mouth and flicks out its tongue. It's forked, a dark grey colour, tasting the air. "We do not require...pleasure. It is a rare thing to come by in the glaxies and nebulas. I will do you a deal, Colander." It drops its hand down to Lewis' chest. "You give me the commodity you call pleasure, and I will give you another chance at life." 

Lewis opens his mouth, but the sectoid digs its hand into his chest. It doesn't have fingernails, but whatever it has, it hurts. "Do not ask questions, Mr. Colander. Do whatever you would do to another human to give them Pleasure. Do these things to me. Do them to #100092. I will unlock your handcuffs and leave. Do you accept my proposal?" 

Lewis opens his mouth, about to say _you want me to suck your dick?_ when there’s a bang from the right. There’s a _thump-thump_ and then there door swings open, accompanied with the hissing of a plasma rifle. #100092 doesn’t stand a chance. One, two, three pulses to the chest leaves it as a mangled mess on the floor. 

Tom stands in the doorway, holding his trusty rifle. A thin plume of smoke rises from the business end of his gun. He drops a jerrycan at his feet. Lewis can’t do anything about the relief that crashed through his body like waves. 

In a beat, he’s over with Lewis. The handcuffs get unlocked with the key taken from the sectoid. Lewis stands on wobbly feet as he rubs his wrists. 

He shoots Tom a wry smile. “My knight in shining armour.” Lewis hopes he can read between the lines and hear the _thank you_ lurking beneath. 

Tom just throws him #100092’s gun. He takes the jerrycan, then, and spills it everywhere. Lewis knows from the smell that it’s gasoline. Then they’re off. He grabs Lewis’ arm and they run through a maze of tunnels. Anybody that finds them gets a laser beam to the face. By the time they’re out, an alarm is going off, a throaty wailing. Aliens swarm everywhere. Gasoline is everywhere. Tom must’ve brought more than one can. One flick of his lighter and the place goes up in flames. They leave the base behind them, to the sweet chorus of twisted screeches. 

They’re outside, on a grassy hill not far from the base. Lewis’ legs collapse beneath him and he sinks to his knees as he tries to get his breath back. His heart is pounding. He escaped. He’s out. He’s _alive._

It’s night-time. A cool breeze blows across them and it’s the best thing Lewis has ever experienced. Stars are dotted across the sky like splatters from a paintbrush. Lewis looks up at Tom, who’s watching as flames lick the sides of the base. The outline of his face is illuminated by orange light. He turns and catches Lewis looking at him. Lewis doesn’t turn away. 

“Looks like the princess wasn’t in a different castle after all,” he smiles. “Are you okay? Did they—“ 

“I’m fine,” Lewis cuts in. “How did you— how did you know? How did you get here? Tom—“ 

Tom sinks down to rest on his hunkers next to Lewis. He pats Lewis’ knee. “It wasn’t that hard. We had a general idea of where the closest alien base was, and it wasn’t hard to find when it was a big black building in the middle of nowhere.” 

Lewis doesn’t answer. He’s too busy trying to get his breath back, trying to understand that he was almost dead— almost worse— but now he’s not. It doesn’t feel real. None of it feels real. 

“What happened in there, anyway?” Tom asks. He’s less happy now, taking on a more serious tone. He’s worried. Of course he’s worried. 

Lewis blinks. “A sectoid asked me to suck its dick.” 

Tom breaks into a chuckle, patting Lewis’ knee. “That’s a good one. Look, our ride’s here. Tell me what really happened some other time, right?” 

Lewis looks over. A big, sleek ship is landing in the grass. He doesn’t recognise it, but it doesn’t look like an alien ship, either. He gives Tom a look. 

“It’s our new ship,” he says. “The Avenger.” 

“The Avenger?” Lewis asks, taking Tom’s hand as he helps Lewis up. Tom wraps an arm around Lewis to help him walk. They start limping towards the ship. 

“Ben named it. Something about superheroes and old movies.” 

With the alien base burning behind them, they walk into the Anvenger. Lewis is greeted by the crew. Most made it out safely. Most. 

“Where’s Ben?” Lewis asks, when there’s a blanket wrapped around him and a cup of tea in his hand. The Avenger doesn’t have a proper bridge, or a proper _anything_. It doesn’t matter. They’re in the makeshift bridge, equipped with a small, flickering hologlobe and make-do monitors. 

Smith, who’s sitting across from Lewis, blinks. He dips his biscuit in his tea and won’t make eye contact. “Well, his leg got crushed. There was an…emergency field amputation performed by Dr. Lalna. We have no infirmary, though, so I think he’s just in his bed.” 

“Is he okay?” 

Lewis sees Smith swallow, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. “It’d be a lot easier if we had, you know, actual medical equipment. I think he’s okay. We gave him like, every drug we have, so…” 

Lewis nods. He’s Commander Brindley again, not _Lewis_ or the _damsel in distress._ He takes a deep breath. “Thank you for all your efforts, Smith.” He nods, about to take his leave, when there’s static over the comms. 

“Commander, report to science labs for a medical evaluation as soon as possible,” Lalna calls out. Lewis is glad he survived the invasion. Lewis squeezes Smith’s shoulder as he passes him on the way to the labs. 

\- 

Lewis finds Ben in the main living quarters, where part of it has been sectioned off to act as a temporary medical bay. He’s lying down, sleeping. He’s deathly pale. Like a ghost. 

The room is dark to make it easier for people to sleep. The light from the door casts shadows across Ben’s face, making smudges of black under his eyes. A blue outline of light surrounds his head. Looking down, Lewis can see the absence of Ben’s left leg. Everything beneath his knee is gone. Instead there is a stump, wrapped in white bandages stained red. 

The room is cool. It’s ghastly quiet, save for the breaths of the others sleeping. Ben shifts, eyelids fluttering. “Lewis?” He croaks. It’s soft, the words getting lost in the quiet of breathing and the buzzing of the idle LEDs overhead. 

Lewis doesn’t feel real. He’s floating, watching. He’s not here. This isn’t real. 

“Ben?” He whispers. He’s afraid to speak loudly. Instead he tiptoes forward, standing at the side of the bed. 

Ben turns his head towards Lewis. He’s almost the colour of the white sheets beneath him. “What happened?” The words are sluggish. Lewis gets caught on every syllable. 

Lewis swallows. “You were hurt. In…in the attack. They— they had to amputate your leg.” 

There is silence. “Oh.” 

Lewis puts his hands on Ben’s. His skin is cool. Ben’s fingers twitch and then he is asleep again. Lewis watches for a moment before he moves on. 

\- 

“What do you _mean,_ there’s a microchip in my head—“ 

“Commander—“ 

“They put a microchip in my head— Lalna, are we sure it’s—“ 

“Commander!” 

Lewis is shocked into silence. There’s a sharpness in Lalna’s voice he hadn’t expected. He sits on a makeshift medical examination table in the middle of what would’ve been Lalna’s office. Instead, it’s acting as a surgery. They have no infirmary on the Avenger, but they have a lot of wounded. They have to make do. 

Lalna pulls his latex gloves further down his hands. “Commander— you need to relax.” 

Lewis stares up at Lalna. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. They put a chip in my head, and you hesitate when it comes to taking it out?” 

“And why, exactly, do you think I’m hesitating? Don’t get me wrong, Brindley. There are hundreds of ways I could get that chip out of your head and trust me, you wouldn’t survive most of them.” 

Lewis can’t help but clench his jaw. Lalna has a point. “Well, what do you suggest? For all we know, they’re listening to us have this conversation. Worse, they’re _watching_ us.” 

Lalna wheels over a little trolley full of medical equipment. He picks up a scalpel, watching it glint in the light. He puts it down and picks up a syringe instead. “That’s the fear,” he says. “The brain scan revealed the chip but no other information. We don’t know the purpose or the contents of the chip, due to our…lack of technology.” 

Lewis can’t help but panic. “Why— what do they— why would they put a chip in me—“ 

Lalna just stands there, looking at him. “You are one of the commanders of the enemy. My guess would be they wanted to mind control you. Maybe they wanted all your information. A spy on the inside. Who knows, Brindley.” 

Lewis gulps. 

Lalna steps towards Lewis. “I’m going to put you to sleep. That way, we will have time to organise our little extraction without the enemy gaining any information, in case they _are_ listening to us. I will put you under again when it’s time.” 

Lewis swallows as Lalna approaches him. He never was fond of needles. “Okay.” It’s about to go in when Lewis freezes. “Don’t— don’t let anything happen,” he says. 

Lalna smiles. It’s more unnerving than reassuring. “Of course.” 

\- 

Lewis feels like he’s swimming. There’s someone leaning over him, putting a bright light in his eyes. A few flashes and it’s gone. Lewis can hear voices— but they’re muffled, as if underwater. _Vitals…dirty work…hands…stable…awake…awake?...asleep._

There’s a bright, flashing pain. It shoots through every cell in Lewis’ veins simultaneously. It hurts. It _hurts_. Images fly across his mind. Smoke— shouting, yelling, screeching. Smoke. Ben, face screwed up with pain, pale and bloodless— metal. Copper. More copper. Darkness. Voices. Pain, searing into his skull as it races round his brain. Mutons. Dead people. Human storage vats. Screeching, screeching, screeching— it gets higher and higher until it’s nothing more but a high pitched whine. He sees the words _YOU ARE OURS_ , over and over. The pain turns his vision white. Together, everything fades to black. 

\- 

When Lewis wakes, he has the worst headache he has ever experienced. Everything lurches when he stands— he almost falls over his own feet and drags the bedside table with him— but he leaves. He doesn’t even know what bed he was in. 

Instead, he starts walking. It’s closer to a zombie’s shuffle, but when he moves too quickly, everything sways. Everything sways anyway. Step after step, Lewis won’t stop until he reaches his destination. 

He gets there eventually. Ben is sleeping in his bed, the same as he was the last time Lewis saw him. Lewis clambers in next to him. Drugs make everything feel like he’s wading through quicksand. As soon as he’s laying down, Ben next to him, he falls asleep. 

\- 

Lewis is tired. He needs to sleep. They'd had a nasty alien interception and they'd lost more people than they should've. There is more caffeine in his veins than there is blood and his eyes burn from the lack of sleep. 

He grabs Lalna by the shoulders when he finds the scientist buried in the bowels of the ship. There is an uncertain terror in Lalna's eyes when Lewis appears, and part of Lewis knows this is unprofessional but he doesn't care. He doesn't care. He shakes Lalna by the shoulders. 

"You need to make a prosthetic for Ben," he says. Lalna looks severely uncomfortable. 

He swallows. Lewis does suppose he took Lalna by surprise— Lewis did emerge from the shadows, and he does look like the definition of shit. Lalna nods, blonde hair sticking up in tufts. It bounces when he moves his head. 

"What kind of—" Lalna starts. He stops when Lewis blinks at him. 

"I don't care, Lalna. I don't care if you cut a leg off a chryssalid and surgically sew it onto Ben's body. As long as he can walk again, I don't care." 

Lalna frowns. If Lewis tries hard enough, he can almost see the cogs working in Lalna's head. His eyebrows furrow. "I don't understand," he says, "Why?" 

Lewis tightens his grip on Lalna. "I owe him this." 

Lalna swallows, but he nods. "I'm sure— I'll...figure something out." 

Lewis lets go of him and slips back into the shadows. 

\- 

Lewis recovers slowly, as does everyone else. The base invasion left more than just a few cuts and bruises. Turps is walking with a limp and there are long gashes down Tom’s cheek. 

Out of all their losses that day, Chou was the most notable. She got a plasma cannon to the temple. Thankfully, no one saw her brains splatter on the wall, but finding the body was horrific enough, Lewis is told. Helicopter is distraught without her. Lewis does not look forward to the speech he will have to give in commemoration. 

“Commander needed in the bridge, alien ship intercepted over the Atlantic.” The comms crackle in Lewis’ ear. Tom’s voice is business like and serious. He remains relatively healthy after the invasion and destruction of the base, apart from the cuts on his face. If anything, they just add to his look. 

Lewis still isn’t sure what actually happened, but he isn’t sure if he wants to know. The base was attacked. The base was destroyed. Most people got out before it was too late. Now everyone is housed in their too-small Avenger. 

Lewis sighs. Ben had been relocated to his actual sleeping quarters in the engineering deck of the ship. His bed is comfy and his warmth intoxicating. Neither of them complain about their recent bed-sharing.“Can’t you do it?” Lewis says, pressing an ear to his earpiece as he twists round in the covers. He doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to leave and face the real world again. 

He can hear Tom’s impatience through the earpiece. “This isn’t a household chore. Peoples’ lives are at stake. Don't you want to destroy Arx? Get down here, Commander.” 

“I’ll be there in a second,” Lewis concedes, turning round to face Ben. “I have to go. Duty calls.” 

Ben, who’s half asleep and has been half asleep since his leg was amputated, blinks. “Be back soon.” The fatigue drips from his voice like honey. 

Lewis wraps himself in his silk dressing gown. The material slips and slides across his skin. It was his present to himself— he’d commissioned it to come with their monthly shipments of supplies a while back. Tom had only laughed as they sat together in the situation room to sort out their needs for the month. You won’t be laughing when you realize you’re missing out, Lewis told him. Tom laughed anyway. 

Thinking of their old base, Lewis realizes everyone’s Doritos are gone. Part of Lewis is relieved. He never understood the whole Dorito thing. Sure, they were all stuck in an underground base with only certain commodities, but why Doritos? Maybe they were actually smuggling cocaine. It would explain a lot. 

Lewis leaves, trying his best to be discrete and slip away from the engineering department undetected. He won’t admit it, but he’s still scared of the engineers. They seem like a different breed— big hard men and women that can survive anything. They’d all survived the base invasion, since they were still building the Avenger when the attack happened. They had to configure it without any test flights and hope it worked as a getaway vehicle. Lewis doesn’t like to think about what would’ve happened if Ben’s team hadn’t worked so well. 

He’s almost out— just has to get through one more door and then Lewis is home free. The engineering floor is like a different, foreign country. Really, Lewis doesn’t want them to see him in a silk dressing gown. He’s not ashamed of it, but he doesn’t want to be mocked. No one saw him, anyway, so it’s fine. 

Of course, Lewis doesn’t think of Sips until there’s a hearty hand on his shoulder. “Brindley! What are you _wearing?_ ” 

Lewis cringes. “Sips— I was just leaving—“ 

“What are you doing here in a silk bath robe? You’re breaking protocol, you know. You have to at least be wearing clothes if you wanna come down here.” There’s a teasing tone to Sips’ voice. Upon looking at Sips, Lewis is reminded of how Sips is a fucking beast. He’s at least six foot tall, built like a bull. What kind of milk are they drinking in Canada, that they’re making beefcakes like Sips? 

“Sips, I—“ Lewis’ neck is starting to flush, he can feel it. He wishes desperately that the floor would swallow him up so he could disappear. 

Sips squints his eyes, but it’s matched with a lopsided grin. “What’s the deal with you and the bossman, anyway? You gotta accompany him to bed now that he’s, you know, lacking in the leg department?” 

Jesus Christ. This could’ve got worse and god knows it did. Lewis can’t help but gulp. “No, it’s not— we’re not—“ 

Sips takes his hand of Lewis’ shoulder, _finally,_ and laughs. Great heaving chuckles. He wipes a fake tear from his eye and finally speaks, after a long moment. “I’m only messing with you,” he says, “but you and the boss make a good couple. I have earplugs too, so I can give those out to the crew, you know, when you and the boss—“ 

“Sips! I’m sure you have work to be doing!” Lewis calls sharply. He doesn’t want to know where Sips was going with the sentence. Sips winks— _winks_ — and takes his leave. The floor shakes beneath him. 

“See you, Silkshirt!” Sips says as he leaves, bringing a hand up in a half-wave. A smile and he’s gone, disappeared to do whatever the fuck goes on in the engineering deck. All this time and Lewis still doesn’t know. 

\- 

“What actually happened in that alien base?” Tom asks. Lewis can tell he’s dying to know. They’re on the floor of Lewis’ office, procrastinating work by drinking alcohol. They’re shamelessly drunk and neither of them really care. 

Lewis giggles. He takes another drink. They’re on rum this time. Alcohol is definitely not in short supply, but Smith has a monopoly on it and drink is hard to come by if you don’t go through him. 

Everything is getting hazy and Lewis doesn’t really want to talk anymore. “I _told_ you— an alien wanted me to give it head!” 

Tom shakes his head and they dissolve into giggles like schoolgirls. “That’s not true,” Tom says, hiccuping through the laughter, “you’re lying to me.” 

Lewis turns to him. “Tom,” he says, “Would _I_ lie to _you?_ ” He points a finger at himself and then at Tom. “And _anyway_ …you talk about lying, and you still haven’t told me how you— lost your eye, Tom. Cat. Tomcat. That’s your name now.” 

Tom smiles as he takes another drink. “Maybe I don’t _want_ to tell you.” 

“Well, you should. Because I am you Commander and I want to _know!_ ” 

The words are childish and insolent but Lewis doesn’t care. Speaking properly is too much _effort_ and Lewis doesn’t _care_ — 

“Well, in that case— I just woke up one day, and I was half blind!” 

Lewis hits Tom in the arm, but it’s weak and joking. “I hate you, Tomcat,” Lewis says, coughing through the laughter. "You know what I hate more?" Lewis continues. "your fucking rat and how it survived the fucking base attack, you fucking—" 

Tom lets out a laugh that sounds almost like a scream. "You're just jealous!" 

"I am not jealous of your _rat_ —" 

"His name is Stanley!" 

"Fuck off!" 

\- 

 

Lewis doesn’t know what it is about the common room late at night, when they’re crowded around a Monopoly board, but it’s fucking weird. Somewhere, when they moved over to the Avenger after the base was destroyed, somebody found an old box of Monopoly. Soon, Monopoly replaced poker on a Saturday night. It is a shitstorm. 

“Collect your $200!” Turps screeches. He throws the paper money at Lewis. Lewis moves his token forward, the dog, obviously the best token in the game. 

Tom throws the dice. He has lots of property and a few houses— he’s dangerous. Real dangerous. Everyone quietens as he throws his dice. When Tom rolls a three, there is a large exhale of relief from everyone else playing. He has to pay taxes, too, to boot. 

“Pay your taxes, bitch!” 

“I’d sooner die!” 

Lewis doesn’t know why they don’t just play poker. It would be much easier. 

Ben rolls, and buys some property. Turps lands of one of Tom’s many houses and almost cries. Sjin gets put in jail. 

“Suck my fucking dick,” Lewis says, slamming his little metal dog down on the board. “It seems my great aunt in Luxembourg died and left me a grand sum of five million dollars.” 

Sjin, the banker, hands him the money. There is a big fat look of reluctance on his face. 

Lewis counts his money. “Oh, yes.” There is something about Monopoly that brings out the inner beast inside him. It makes the big black cloud following him around disappear for a while. 

There is another round of collective breath-holding and exhaling as Tom rolls again. This time, he buys more property. The teeth grinding is deafening. 

Barry kisses his dice before he throws them. “C’mon, please...” Barry, somehow, still makes it to their weekly Poker-Monopoly nights. Lewis doesn't know how— Lewis doesn't even really know anything about Barry, other than that Barry isn't even his name. He's a new recruit that’s somehow allowed to hang around with all the higher ups, too. Word on the corridor is that Barry slept through the base invasion. 

He lands on Turps’ property. There is uproar. Turps collects his $200 and passes go. Sjin is still in jail, but it doesn't matter because he uses his Monopoly money to buy massages from Turps. 

Lewis rolls— he rattles the dice, kisses them, blows on them, everything— and still lands on Tom’s property. He owes all his money to Tom. Lewis is bankrupt. He has nothing. Zero. Zilch. 

“Who’s laughing now, bitch?” Tom says. His smile is cruel. His eyes burn like the depths of hell. For a moment, Lewis feels like he is looking into the heart of Satan himself. 

Lewis is very close to flipping the table. He decides it would be too unprofessional and instead he settles for shaking his head. “I’m out, I’m out,” he says, taking his leave. 

He moves away from the table, out of the spotlight that sits over their Poker-Monopoly table. This common room is different to the one in the old base. It's smaller, for one, and it just feels different. There's a different fung shui or something, Lewis supposes. The air is cooler here. The clock is broken, stuck at half eight. Lewis swears it’s late, swears hours have passed, but they haven’t. He watches the others, packed around the table. They kick and scream as Tom reigns superior over them. There is a loud _“YEEHAW”_ as someone passes go. 

“What the fuck,” Lewis mutters. He is going to fucking bed. 

\- 

"Nine people died! Over half the squad _died_ —" 

"What, and that's my fault now? Sorry, _Commander,_ but I didn't realize I was in charge—" 

"Don't take that tone with me, Clark—" 

"And what are you going to do? Fire me? Leave me behind? Abandon me in the Congo with nobody except a bunch of mutons?" 

Lewis can't help but shake. They're standing up, in the middle of the bridge, which is silent. Everyone makes sure to be scarce when tempers flare. Lewis clenches his fists. Tom stands over at him, leering. Lewis hates how tall Tom is. He fucking hates it. 

"You're not the one that has to make the fucking eulogies, Tom! You don't—" 

Lewis can see Tom's jaw tighten, and Tom narrows his eyes. He leans forward, barely. "Are you saying— are you saying you don't like when people die because you don't like the fucking speech?” 

"No, _no!_ I meant— I— you're not the one that has that weight! It doesn't lie on your shoulders—" 

"And you think I don't feel that guilt, too?" 

Lewis tries his best to ignore his heart beating like crazy in his chest. He swallows, standing up straight. "No," he says, bringing his voice down. They're adults. On top of that, they're in charge. Lewis is still shaking, though. "No," he repeats. "But I'm the Commander. I'm the one responsible—" 

Tom turns away, shaking his head. "God, you're a fucking prick, you know that." He bites the inside of his cheek, looking back at Lewis. "If you think you're the only one with problems around here, then you should just fuck off, Commander." 

The fire running through Lewis had subsided for a moment, but now it's back at full force. "Don't tell me to fuck off." So much for keeping his voice calm. Any louder and the whole ship will hear them. 

Tom steps forward. He towers over Lewis. "I'll tell you what I want to tell you," he answers. The words are quiet, but there is an undercurrent of rage beneath. There is a significant spike in Lewis' heartrate. 

"Do I have to remind you that I'm your Commander?" 

Tom grins. It's tight, laced with malice. "Do I have to remind you," he retorts, copying Lewis' tone, "that there were nine deaths today and apparently they're all your fault?" 

Lewis' whole body goes stiff. He steps forward. His chest is almost touching Tom's. "I don't get why you _want_ the blame—" 

"I don't want the blame, but you're part of a team and we all carry that weight—" 

"Sorry," Lewis cuts in. "Sorry I'm the commander instead of you. At least we got the goddamn information!" 

They'd just finished an artefact mission, which meant assaulting an alien communications centre. They stole the information they needed then blew the place to pieces. It was hard. Gruelling. They had to do it, though. They needed to get their performance rating up and they needed the technology and supplies. Lewis had decided to do it. It may have been a mistake, but they can sell the excess for more money to opposing governments, and nothing will be wasted in terms of benefits. It was a risk he had to take. 

Lewis resists grabbing Tom by the shoulders. Part of him is enjoying the bubbling in his veins, like red hot lava, spitting flames and burning anyone who comes too close. He wants to burn Tom— show him the heat— show him that Lewis is a force to be reckoned with. Instead, he tenses his jaw. He tries not to snarl, but he does anyway. It comes out as a mangled smile with too much teeth. 

"I don't understand you," Tom says, staring down at Lewis like a bull to a red flag. "We got the information, but at what cost, Commander?" 

"We lost some people, but—" 

"We lost some people? They all have families, they all had lives, you can't just _dismiss_ them like that—" 

"I'm not dismissing them—" 

"They're not _livestock,_ Commander." 

Lewis gulps back his retort. They fall into a hard, flat silence. The lava simmers down, becomes cooler. Lewis falls back. He turns to stone. Doesn't move a muscle. Can't feel anything, apart from the faint heat though his veins, fading by the minute. "At least I can see out of both my eyes," he mumbles, the words low. It's a bad insult. They both know it. Lewis regrets it immediately. 

Tom blinks. "What," he says. He rumbles like thunder. Lewis doesn't want to see the lightning anymore. 

"I said at least I can see out of both my eyes." Lewis rears his head. His fire is gone. He doesn't want to be here anymore, stone or not. 

Tom bites his lip. He isn't thunder and lightning anymore, but he's something scarier. Scary and silent and seething. For a moment, Lewis braces himself for a hit. Instead, Tom stands, fist half-raised. "Don't insult me about things you know nothing about, Brindley." He pauses. "Do you really want to know how I lost my eye?" 

Lewis purses his lips. He's this far down the rabbit hole. "I bet you were out taking a piss and you got fucking jumped by some sectoids." The words burn his throat. There's no going back now. 

Somewhere, there's the blunt realisation that this could be the end of his friendship with Tom, there really mightn't be any going back after this, but the realisation is empty. Lewis is stone. He is stone. He doesn't care. 

Tom is still. Lewis swears he's trembling, but what does Lewis know? "You prick," Tom murmurs. "You want to know what happened? Got jumped by chryssalids. Do you know what happened next? My teammate didn't shoot the aliens. He shot me instead." He shoves Lewis, watches as he stumbles and regains his footing. Tom steps forward, so they're chest to chest again. "I had to fight my way through," another shove, "masses of aliens," another shove, _"on my own,"_ another shove, "abandoned by _my own team_." He can't push Lewis back anymore because Lewis is pressed up against the wall. Tom crowds round him, enclosing him. There's no escape. No going back. 

"I was called a liability, because they couldn’t fucking handle me. And my eye?" Tom says, pointing a finger to his bad eye, cloudy and milky white. "My team members burnt it out with a laser pistol. Is that what you wanted? Are you happy now, Commander?" 

Lewis shuts his eyes. He braces himself from another push, for a kick, for anything. He'd rather Tom just beat the shit out of him than this silent, angry being in Tom's place. There's the echo of footsteps. When Lewis opens his eyes, Tom is gone. 

Lewis realizes he's gone to the engineering department. Of course Tom is gone to Ben. Of course. Lewis looks at the floor. Fire still runs through his veins, but it's different now. It's burning hot shame, rising to his cheeks and neck. He flies out of the bridge, pretending he doesn't see Turps and Sjin who had their ears to the door, listening in. Lewis doesn't know where he's going, but he retrieves the bottle of gin hidden under his bed in his quarters and disappears. 

\- 

Lewis sips tea in Lalna's retrofitted 'office', if you could call it that. The new science department sits at the lowest levels of the ship. Their elerium core reactor is closer than it probaby should be. On the Avenger it sits as far away as possible from everything. Elerium radiation is dangerous, and exposure to it without safety precautions is a downright death wish. Before, in the base— thoughts of the old base leave Lewis feeling melancholic— the reactor was stored deep underground, in a pit lined with lead, and lead, and some more lead. It was as safe as it could get. Here, though, it's a slightly different story. 

The elerium reactor paints everything in a green glow, despite being hidden away in the corner. Somebody taped a sign to it, a sheet of paper reading "DO NOT TOUCH OR U DIE". A laser turret takes the most attention, though. It sits in the middle of the workfloor, surrounded by its own team of groupies. One whitecoat in particular seems to take all the credit, patting her invention. She presses a button and the room hushes. There seems to be a tesla coil taped to the end of the turret, and upon pressing the button, tendrils of electricity gather. There's a thunder as the turret shoots lightning at the target on the wall. The wall is covered in holes and the target is a picture of Ben's face. The rivalry between the science department and the engineering department lives on. 

"If you love your turret so much, then why don't you marry it," grumbles one of the scientists, hands in his pockets as his kicks the ground. 

"I would if I could," The scientist, answers. She pats his turret again, giving it a look that should probably be reserved for humans and not robots. 

Lewis is brought out of his thoughts by Lalna, who rushes over. His lab coat flaps behind him. He carries a box, or a briefcase, or something. Lewis doesn't know. He sets his tea, which is cold, down on this desk. Lalna's office is just a different corner of the work floor that's sectioned off with a tie-dye curtain. It was used as an infirmary, back after the base invasion. Now it's just Lalna's office, messy and glorious. Lewis stands up as Lalna pulls the curtain shut behind him, looking equally harried and gleeful. 

"Commander!" He says, almost as if he's surprised Lewis is there, even though he called Lewis here. He sets the box down on his table, where there isn't an inch of free space. He scatters some papers and sits the box down on top. He looks at Lewis and looks at the box, waiting for Lewis' reaction. 

Lewis has none. "It's a box," he says, blinking. Is he missing something, or is Lalna actually crazy? 

Lalna's eyes almost pop out of his head. "It's not just a box!" He points at the latches facing Lewis. "Open it, open it!" 

Lewis takes a breath. Lalna's excitement is almost unnerving, and so far Lewis is thoroughly unimpressed with his weird box. Lewis undoes the latches, though, and he's faced with half a metre of metal. Lewis exhales. He knew he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. 

Lalna, however, is unaffected by Lewis' lack of enthusiasm. He almost twirls around his office. "I spent hours working on that for you, you know— the creative process— it was such fun—" 

Lewis takes the _thing_ out of its styrofoam packaging. It's a bit longer than his forearm, and it's shaped almost like someone's lower leg. There's a mechanism towards the bottom, and the rest of it is spiralling twists of what looks like titanium. It looks high-tech, as if it came straight out of a science fiction novel. 

It clicks. It's Ben's prosthetic . 

Lewis can’t believe he’s so _stupid._ “Lalna— you— you made this?” 

He looks at it better. The titanium twirls around, and now Lewis can see the curve of the ankle and calf. The mechanism is where the ankle is, sloping down towards the toes. There’s another mechanism where the knee is. It’s all bright silver, and it’s so light Lewis almost drops it in surprise. 

Lalna looks as if he’s going to explode with glee. A child on Christmas. “Oh, it was so much fun! I hope it’s what you wanted— it’s made from extra-light, explosion-proof alumi— and it’s completely—“ 

Lewis stops listening. He sets it down in its case, nestled around its styrofoam packaging. He takes one last look at it. Really, it’s probably more of an artwork than a prosthetic, but it doesn’t matter. Ben will be able to walk again. Lewis doesn't know how he's going to present it to Ben, but he'll figure it out. It's not like he can just hand him a prosthetic and say "Here, have a leg— now you won't be confined to your bed and your wheelchair"? There's a joke about needing a hand in there somewhere. 

Lalna is looking at him. Lewis steps closer to him, pulling Lalna's goggles down over his eyes. "Good work, Doctor."


	4. Chapter 4

Lewis follows the hallways as far as the firing range. He stumbles in on Turps, surrounded by a horde of chumps. Some are young-faced, looking barely old enough to even enlist. There was a day when that was Lewis. There are others, though, who are older and worn. There's a man with white streaked through his hair who looks like he's old enough to have witnessed the birth of the earth. 

"—and that's why we don't shoot our comrades!" Turps says, flourishing everything with some hand gestures. He hasn't seen Lewis, but a few of the new recruits have caught sight of him in the door. Lewis watches as they swallow and go pale, as if they've shat themselves. 

Turps glances over his shoulder, nodding at Lewis before turning back to his adoring students. "Now, we're all going to grab a pistol from the box and we're going to turn the safety off, all right? Try to shoot the targets. Anyone who shoots a human will be put down like a dog!” 

The recruits disperse, heading towards the battered box full of even more battered pistols. When Turps is finally free, he steps back towards Lewis, his hands on his hips. 

"I see you have your own disciples," Lewis says with a smile, watching as the chumps pick up the pistols with such wonder in their eyes it makes Lewis wonder how they even got here. He shakes his head. "How did they even pass the entrance exam?” 

Turps barks out a laugh. "Oh, we got rid of the entrance exam ages ago. We had to lower our standards by like, a lot. Now we just test them to see if they have strong psychic strength. We turn away all the noodlebrains. Now that mind control is part of the game, we can't afford to have one of our own do the alien's dirty work." 

The fact Lewis isn't aware of this doesn't surprise him. Tom does handle a lot of things. However, it still doesn't stop the incredulation. "Really?" 

Turps shrugs. "We need quantity, Brindley, not quality." 

They watch as one of the chumps attempts to shoot a target set at the far end of the room but instead hits one of the lights on the ceiling and breaks it into smithereens. Lewis smiles, although it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Quantity, not quality," he repeats, eyeing the chump. He's small, with a halo of dark curls surrounding his face. He throws his pistol down on the floor and steps on it, trying to crush it into the ground. 

"Merde! Fils de pute!" He screams. His curls bounce. 

Lewis gives Turps a look. Turps shrugs. "That's Didier. He's French." 

"I never would have known." Lewis can't help the sarcasm. Turps gives him scathing look, and there's a shred of smugness growing in Lewis' chest, despite his bad moods recently. "How's your leg? After the... incident," Lewis asks, filling the silence that was only punctuated with gunshots. 

Turps smiles, showing his canines. He has nice teeth. "Oh, the base invasion? You know, I'm not too bad. I can't complain. It's not like, you know, it was bad or something. It's not like I lost my leg." 

Lewis is almost surprised. He'd thought Turps would be as cocky as usual, but the modesty is something Lewis hasn't seen in him before. Lewis nods. "Yeah—" 

"How is Ben, anyway? I heard on the hall that he got a prosthetic." 

Lewis nods. He doesn't want to mention he specifically asked for the prosthetic to be made. He can't show favouritism, after all. "Yeah, he's getting used to it, I think. It's different, you know. He's been stuck in bed or a wheelchair since the base attack. It takes a lot of physiotherapy, but Dr. Lalna said something about biochemicals and alien growth technology that speeds up the process? I'm not quite sure.” 

"I can imagine he hates that. Ben being Ben, and everything." Turps says. "He's a mover. He likes his freedom. At least... at least everything's fixed now." 

Lewis folds his arms. "Ben's up and moving, anyway. You know, I almost feel bad for missing it. I'm the Commander, I should've been there when the base was invaded. Everyone else was injured or something, everyone else _experienced_ it, but I didn't." 

"You're so odd, you know that, right?" Turps says, smiling at the floor as he shakes his head. "You were busy doing other things. You shouldn't be wishing to witness half your base population get massacred." 

The words are light, joking, but there's an undercurrent of _something_. Bitterness. 

Lewis bites the inside of his cheek. "I suppose." 

"It wasn't as romantic as you think it was, Brindley." 

Lewis shakes his head. He blinks, watching as the chump, Didier, tries to shoot the target again. He can't figure out why the gun won't shoot. He forgot to switch off the safety. "I never said it was romantic," he says. He doesn't want to look at Turps. The fire is back— shame? "I just... I don't know. Would've rather been there than sat in some alien base handcuffed to a chair." 

Turps gives him a sidelong look. It's brief, and there's the hint of a smile somewhere. "What happened in there, anyway?" 

Lewis shrugs. "An alien wanted me to suck its dick." 

"You really are a funny one, aren't you," Turps says, the words accompanied by a low laugh and another smile directed towards the floor. "We should talk more often. Sometimes me and the others have a drink in the common. You should come sometime." 

Lewis is about to answer when he's interrupted by the fire alarm. The sprinklers lined up on the ceiling start showing everyone. Didier throws his smoking gun to the ground. Lewis didn't see what happened, but there's a big black scorch mark on the floor and the room suddenly smells like burnt hair. Turps shoots him a sympathetic look as he returns to his chumps, who obviously can't be left to their own devices. 

\- 

Lewis covers his face with his hands. Another terror mission. This time, though, it actually went well. Relief washes through him like oxygen after being underwater. They'd gained information, plans, tactics— they brought down an alien ship and saved most of the civilians. They'd found some weird artefacts, too— they're Dr. Lalna's problem, though. 

Arx is close. Lewis can feel it looming over him, sinking into every thought and break in his mind. Lalna got rid of the chip in Lewis' head, but sometimes Lewis swears it's still there. Sometimes it feels like there's still a presence, like Arx is inside his head. He doesn't mention it, in case everyone gets worried. 

Success is an unfamiliar feeling. He sits back and enjoys it while he can. 

\- 

Tension follows Lewis around like a black cloud. No matter where he goes, he can’t shake the knots from his shoulders or Tom’s words as they rattle around his head. Everybody else knows it, too. When Lewis enters a room, there is silence as everyone looks at him. The conversations continue afterwards, but Lewis knows all the eyes are on him. 

The worst thing is still having to work with Tom. They’re not talking, and the tension between them is palpable, but they still need to decide on this month’s rationing and where to head next with their scientific developments. There have been many times when Lewis wants to reach out, grab Tom by the sides and _speak_ to him again. Lewis wouldn’t say he’s lonely— no, he’s not lonely— but he aches for the cigarette smoke and the late-night conversations and the _presence._ However, Lewis is bound in silence. Something about being the first to give in, the first to clear the air between them, leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He won’t give in first. He wants the satisfaction of being the last man standing. 

Ben stays thankfully neutral throughout the whole affair. Lewis makes himself scarce when he doesn’t have any official business. It’s cowardly, maybe, but constantly butting heads with Tom and having short, one sentence conversations grates on Lewis’ nerves too much. Instead, he sits on the floor in an eastern corridor, watching as Ben removes one of the wall panels and fiddles with the wires running like veins behind it. 

“So you’re on repair duties, huh,” Lewis states. Ben turns and gives him a smile as he picks a spanner out of his toolbox. 

Ben sits back on his knees. Lewis can see the silver prosthetic peeking out between Ben’s shoe and his jeans. “Well, I think they just needed me out of the way.” 

Lewis frowns. “You’re literally in charge though.” 

He can see the dimples appear as Ben smiles, even though he’s faced away from Lewis. “Somebody needs to fix all the faulty lights, though, right? Anyway, it can be tiring listening to the same arguments every day.” He picks up a pliers and starts snipping wires. “ _We need to install the omnipropulsion system first_ , someone says. _No, we need the new elerium cooler,_ says someone else. The same thing every day. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t the Chief Engineer at all.” 

“I know how you feel.” Lewis says. It’s light, laced with humour, but it couldn’t feel more the opposite. He shifts around until he’s clutching his knees to his chest. 

Ben shoots him a quick look, questioning him, before looking back at his wiring. “I doubt we work under the same… circumstances, though.” 

Lewis rolls his eyes. “If you’re talking about how people’s lives hang in the balance, then yeah.” The words are sharp, stinging Lewis like needles. Ben, though, doesn’t seem to notice. He could easily take the offensive, but he doesn’t. Sometimes, Lewis is so grateful for Ben. 

There is silence for a moment, except for the clang as Ben sets down his pliers. He picks a drill out of his toolbox and for a moment the sound of nail driving into metal ricochets off the metal walls of their little hallway. 

“Lewis Brindley with his crown of thorns,” Ben murmurs. Lewis doesn’t know what to say back. Something about the words make him ache. 

Lewis clutches his knees. “I don’t want to go back to the bridge.” 

Ben looks over his shoulder at Lewis for a millisecond, then back to his wiring. He’s trying to repair the faulty lighting. It seems in their haste to get the Avenger up and running, the engineers forwent proper wiring for some of the lights. 

“Why is that?” Ben asks. He sits back. Either he’s finished or he’s given up. 

Lewis blinks. He can’t decide if he wants to have this conversation or not. “My…working conditions.” 

Ben turns round to face him. “Ah. I see. Maybe you should try to improve your ‘working conditions’.” 

“You don’t understand,” Lewis snaps. His throat feels tight. A wave of regret washes over him and Lewis braces himself for the guilt that will follow. “My working conditions…they were fine, they were great, actually, but now— now I don’t know what to do.” 

Ben moves, so he’s sitting next to Lewis instead of facing him. “Why is that?” 

“I— I don’t know.” Back up, back up, back up. They’ve gone too far. Lewis doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. Abort. Code red. 

“Tell me,” Ben whispers. Lewis tries not to shake his head. Ben’s a dog with a bone now, he won’t let go. 

Lewis licks his lips. They’re gone dry. “Well, I suppose— I don’t want to be the one to…fix the working conditions. I want the working conditions to realise they’re wrong first.” 

They’re talking about Tom. They both know it. Lewis wishes he wasn’t here. 

Ben’s forehead creases. He puts a hand over Lewis’. “So you’d work in bad conditions and put yourself through all that stress just because you don’t want to be the first person to do something about it?” 

Lewis swallows. He nods. “It sounds stupid when you say it like that.” 

“That’s because it is fucking stupid. Go fix your problems. It’s not worth all the hassle, Lewis, really.” 

Lewis blinks. This is the end of their conversation. There’s a burning behind his eyes and it feels too close to tears for Lewis to be comfortable. “Are you finished your job?” 

Ben looks towards the wiring. He stands up and slides the wall panel back into place. He shrugs before bending down to pick up his toolbox. “Well, if this place goes up in flames because of some faulty lights then it won’t be my fault.” He holds a hand out towards Lewis. Lewis takes it, and Ben helps him up. They walk back through the hallway, slowly, Ben limping with his new leg, where the ship isn’t so quiet and the hum of machines is louder. 

\- 

The information they got from the terror mission proves more useful than imaginable. They even retrieved some weird looking sphere. Lewis is told it’s the power source from the communications operation they infiltrated. Lewis didn’t see it himself, but according to Lalna it’s a work of art. Also according to Lalna, they now have all the details they need about the enemy's locations, future attacks and plans. It's a gold mine, Lalna said. From the information, they know Arx is their leader. If it's an alien or a sentient computer program or Major Tom, they don't know. Lewis just tried to fight the rising bile in his stomach when Lalna gave him the brief. 

Lewis sits in the bridge, chewing on his fingernails. He watches on the helmet cams as the team scope out the nearest alien base. The one Lewis was kept in is gone, its inhabitants dead and forgotten. It was a big loss for the aliens, but how big can their losses be when they have planets, maybe even galaxies, full of willing soldiers? They can clone sectoids, too, so it's not like there's a lack of recruits. _Livestock._

After all, they only want to conquer Earth for its elerium. That's what Pyrion told Lewis, way back when. Elerium powers the alien ships, and as far as Lewis is aware, controls the aliens the way money does humans. Their lifeblood. They'd exhausted their own elerium on their home planets. That’s why they’re on earth. Thhey need fuel. 

Tom sits next to him, forever silent. Lewis gnaws his nails. They'd only sent in the recon team, consisting of a few chumps, Zylus and Sjin. Zylus and Sjin maybe aren't the best pairing— the constant bickering gets tiring after more than a few minutes— but they get the job done. They're staked outside the alien building, watching through binoculars as sectoids patrol outside. 

Lewis shoots Tom a look, who ignores it and keep his arms folded across his chest. Maybe it's too ambitious to even expect a conversation. Helicopter sits on the far side of the bridge, watching the whole affair on the big monitors overhead. She hasn't been on any missions since the base attack. Since Chou died. 

Lewis remembers he needs to give orders. He can't let his own Emotions and Problems get in the way of his job. "Slim, skirt around the side of the building. See if there's an opening somewhere." Lewis folds his arms and tries his hardest to think. Tom seems to absorb all his thoughts instead, as if he's some brainwave sponge. Lewis shakes himself and brings himself back to reality. "Sjin... if there's an opening, then throw a grenade. The rest, sit tight. This is recon, guys, we're looking for information, not action." 

There's a chorus of "yes boss". Tom kicks Lewis shin' beneath the table. Lewis looks at him, sees Tom's jaw pulled tight. Lewis knows what he's trying to say. _You know grenades are dumb,_ Tom says. Lewis wants to bite back, rub that look off his face and yell _yes, but how else are we supposed to take out a horde of aliens? Would you rather send in our forces only to die, when a fucking grenade could've solved the whole problem?_

Lewis can imagine Tom's response too well. _Yes, but a grenade won't win the war, will it._

There's the whoosh of air as Sjin sends a grenade flying through the air. There's a pop and a bang, followed with a plume of smoke and the squelch as dead bodies hit the floor. The team move up, in and out of cover, lasers scorching the air as more aliens fall. 

"All clear," Zylus breathes, the note of triumph clear in his voice. "What next, CO?" 

Lewis blinks, looks at Tom for a millisecond then stretches his arms behind his head. He won't let on the terror snaking its way around Lewis' lungs. If they can get this... well, then, they're close to the end. The artefact they retrieved, the whispers over the radio waves about Arx. They're almost there. No going back now. 

Lewis takes a deep breath. He can't help the tension in his shoulders. "Head in the door. Take it slow. And I mean slow, okay, one slip up and you're dead. We only need information. Don't go too far in." 

Tom cracks his knuckles. "It's hard to believe they just have a door to their base. Like, not hidden or anything." 

The conversation surprises Lewis. He's not complaining, though. The sentences are clipped, and they sound weird, almost as if Tom has had to chew them for a while before spitting them out. Lewis blinks. "Do you think it's a trap?" 

"I don't know," Tom replies. He strokes his beard. 

"Maybe they're just stupid?" Lewis offers. It's bad, surely they're not that dumb— but then again, Lewis was asked to give a sectoid head. They are here to enslave the human race and take over Earth, though, so...? 

Tom just shrugs. Lewis turns his attention back to the helmet cams, watching as the team inch their way forward through the metal halls and the metal doors. It's empty. A ghost town. Lewis can feel the apprehension, even though he's on the Avenger and the team is miles away. They're nervous. Lewis sees it in the trigger fingers and the silence between them. Even the chumps got the idea. This is no time for joking. Zylus and Sjin even stopped arguing, for the first time in forever. Lewis must send them into alien bases more often. 

It strikes him how stupid this is. A recon team doesn't go into an alien base. They scout the outside and the rest is left up to a fourteen-man squad armed to the teeth and ready to fight. Invading is a death wish for even the best of teams. Lewis learned the hard way. It's no place for a five-man team with minimal weapons, and armour, and briefing. Lewis readjusts his headset, just about to call for an evac when Tom grips his wrist, catching it in the air. 

Lewis turns to look at him, gaping. Tom's eyes are glued to the monitors. "Look," he whispers. Lewis looks— he can't believe what he sees. A throne room— big, banners hanging from the ceiling. There's a stripe of glass along the floor, leading to a throne which dominates the room. It's big, ornate, not belonging here. It doesn't _belong_ in the depths of an alien base, with its extravagant woodwork and red upholstery. Sitting on the throne is the alien they encountered once before— the 'metal skeleton'. It doesn't move when the team enter. It doesn't react at all. 

Lewis doesn't even notice his mouth go dry. This could be it. This might be the end for Sjin and Zylus and the few chumps— this could be the boss battle. The final chapter. 

The team freezes. There's nothing beneath the glass they're standing on. It's multicoloured, like an oil slick. Lewis has to make a call. "Keep going," he says. They inch forward. If they were apprehensive before, then Lewis can't even imagine how they feel now. 

"Guys?" Lewis murmurs. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, but something about the eerie silence and the empty throne gives him the heebie-jeebies. 

"Commander," Zylus replies, his voice echoing from wall to wall, "What is—" 

He gets cut off as a high-pitched whine rings out. Lewis can't tell from where, but it's loud, too loud— It's like chalk over a chalkboard, or a fork scraping across a plate. Lewis isn't even there, but it makes his teeth hurt and he resists tearing off his headset. The squad cover their ears, falling to the ground. Slim, one of the chumps, is the first to scream. The others follow suit. The noise won't stop. Eventually, the helmetcams go black and the comms go silent.

\- 

"What the _fuck_ happened," Lewis spits. "We lost contact— what _happened—_ " 

The team pile out of the Skyranger. Lewis almost regrets the sharpness of his tone, since everyone looks like shit. Black and blue washes under their eyes and they're all pale. Sallow. Gaunt. Almost skeletal. When Lewis first sees them, he has to remind himself just who he's looking at. 

Sjin starts stripping off his armour, right there in the hangar. "Dunno, boss. That noise... was like nothing I ever experienced before." 

Tom is next to Lewis, standing silently with his arms folded. The others copy Sjin, throwing their power suits to the ground. It clangs against the floor, the sound ringing out across the hangar. Lewis doesn't miss how almost all the squad winces at the noise. Maybe their eardrums are burst. 

Zylus stands in his under armour, consisting of a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved shirt. He looks as if he hasn't slept or eaten or showered in the past week. "We all blacked out. We can't tell you what happened, Brindley." 

Lewis can't help but stare. There's a weird noise, and everyone _blacks out,_ and no one wants to tell him what happens? He looks at Tom, who offers no support, and back to the team, all stripped to their underwear and drunk with fatigue. 

"Alright, everyone, take a shower. Get something to eat. Meet me in the situation room in thirty, and then we'll talk this over. Roger?" 

There's a resounding reply from everyone, but it sounds like grumbles. Again, there's that stab of guilt in Lewis' chest— maybe he shouldn't be pushing everyone so hard— but he needs information. This could mean life or death. 

The team disperse, although there's another collective whine as the comms fill with static. "Mr. Flax on transmission," someone calls, "CO and XO to the bridge, ASAP." 

Lewis sends Tom an exasperated look, but it doesn't receive any recognition. Lewis thought they'd had a breakthrough— talking, and then Tom actually grabbed his wrist!— but it seems they're back to stoic silence and short, clipped sentences. It's beginning to wear Lewis down. Maybe Ben was right. Maybe being the last man standing isn't worth it. 

They reconvene in the bridge a few minutes later. Lewis still isn't used to the communication, the formal language everyone uses when Flax is involved, but he makes an effort. He throws on his official jacket and pretends there isn't a stain on his shirt. Lewis doesn't bother changing his trousers— it's not like Pyrion can see below his waist, anyway, on the transmission. Lewis does wash his face, in an attempt to wash away the stress and the tiredness. He looks grey. Washed out. Pale. Usually there's a day or two of notice before Pyrion actually sends a transmission. He's never so sudden. 

Lewis just dons his best smile as he faces the monitor, a beeping sounding through the room as the transmission connects. "Flax," he says. "What a pleasure—" 

"Cut the bullshit, Brindley," Pyrion calls. It sends a shock through Lewis' system. Today must be wrong. Lewis must've woke up in the wrong world or something. First the whole throne room ordeal, and now Pyrion is looking older than his years and telling him to shut up. _It's not real,_ a voice whispers in the back of Lewis' mind. _This isn't real. Go back to sleep, Brindley. Go wake up on the right side of reality, where Tom actually speaks to you and everything is happy._

Pyrion, though, is without his army jacket and medals. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar and wrinkled. He looks pretty bad, wrinkles showing around his eyes. Lewis doesn't remember him looking so harried before. 

"Flax?" He says. This doesn't make any sense. 

Pyrion rubs a hand over his face. His wedding ring glints in the low lighting of his office. Lewis remembers, all that time ago, before he joined this shitshow. Sitting in that office, talking everything over. It looks unkept than it was all that time ago. 

Pyrion opens his mouth, but the words don't seem to come out. He rubs his eyes, his jaw pulling tight before loosening again. "I wasn’t supposed to tell you, yet, but there was no way I could keep this a secret from you." 

Lewis blinks. "Okay." 

"The Council is done with XCOM. They’re creating an... alliance, with the aliens. Something about a joint government? There's talk of it. That’s what they’re telling everyone, but I know it’s just because enough money was passed under the table.” 

Lewis frowns. “Surely peace would be a good thing?” 

“I said an alliance, not peace. The fighting isn’t just stopping, we’re _joining_ them. We’re negotiating. But like I said, money has a large influence. Mark my words, Brindley, sooner or later we’ll be under an alien regime. This is just the beginning.” 

This doesn't make any sense. "They're just... giving the earth away?" 

Pyrion sighs, the motion slow. Tired. "Pretty much. I was supposed to make it sound more patriotic, but..." 

Lewis' brow creases. This has to be wrong. "They can't do that, though. What happens to all the resistance? What happens to us? What happens to XCOM?"


	5. Chapter 5

**_ACT THREE_ **

The situation room is big, a projector taking pride of place in the centre of the back wall. There's chairs strewn round the place, forming jagged lines. Towards the back, a sand table sits, used for strategizing attacks. Usually, missions are briefed in here. Now, Lewis forms the chairs in a rough circle and gestures for everyone to sit. 

"Now you're all going to tell me exactly what happened in that base. Failure to do so will have you used as a target in the firing range when the chumps training with Turps." Lewis tries to use his strictest voice— they need the information. They're so close, too. The team from the most recent recon mission sit around. They look uninterested. They look _tired_ — Lewis must send them down to Lalna for testing. Concern tickles the back of his mind. The team has been through a lot, the guys probably need a break. However, everything carries a bigger importance than it did before. Now, there's an actual shred of hope. 

Lewis sighs, pulling up a chair and joining the circle himself. "Listen, guys, this is classified information, but in a month's time, XCOM mightn't exist anymore. What happened in there could help us defeat the aliens. This is our last stand, people. It's now or never. I need to know what happened." More importantly, Lewis needs to know why they're so reluctant to tell him. 

At least they're stirring now. Sjin strokes his beard. Lewis looks round the circle. The sight reminds him how much this looks exactly like an AA meeting. The thought encourages a smile, but something about it feels inappropriate. This is no time for laughs and giggles. However, Lewis smiles anyway. Zylus blinks and leans forward in his chair. "Well, the noise started, and it got worse and worse, louder and louder... it began to hurt—" 

"A lot. It hurt a lot," one of the chumps says. He has a small face and a head of wiry ginger hair. Lewis racks his head for the man's name. He can't remember, but Lewis can remember the callsign. The Gooch, he's called. 

Lewis can't help the relief. At least they're talking now. "Go on," he says. 

"And then, well, I blacked out." Zylus finishes, nodding his head. The others nod too, making sounds of agreement. 

They're talking, but Lewis still has to work for it. "You all blacked out?" There's a louder noise of agreement and looking round the circle Lewis sees that everyone did indeed black out. "What happened then?" 

"It was like they were inside my head," Slim says. He began as a chump, but he worked his way up the ranks. Now, he's just about earned his place on the main team. Frankly, Lewis is surprised Slim even lasted this long. Usually, people don't have a long lifespan in XCOM. There's something about Slim, though— he carries himself with gravity. Everyone respects him, and Lewis knows from the way people talk about him that he's revered almost the same way a god is. 

Zylus nods. "Yeah... like mind control or something." 

"Yeah, actually, it was just like when you mind control an alien. Except instead of us going in their heads, they were going in our heads." Slim murmurs. "It was sort of scary." 

Lewis clasps his hands. "And what then? Did you see anything?" 

There is a sudden silence from the crew. Lewis watches them all exchange looks— all guilty. Hiding something. Lewis had been feeling good— they'd been getting somewhere— but now there was a seed of doubt in his chest. What if they were still under mind control? What if he'd led intruders right into his base, into a room where they were alone with him, the Commander? 

Lewis looks around the group. Nobody meets his eyes. 

"It was..." Slim starts, trailing off when he receives Lewis' full attention. His face— round, dark hair like Ben— contorts as he looks round at the others. "It was talking to us. The thing. Saying that it we should go home, that there's no point fighting anymore. It was like a video, you know, like the training videos we were shown, except it was just videos of people dying, and then us dying." 

There is a deathly silence in the room. Lewis almost can't believe what he's hearing. "And?" 

Zylus swallows. All eyes turn to him. “It showed that alien sitting in the throne. Dressed like a king or something. Arx… just sitting there. Then it started saying your name. Screaming your name. Then you were the one sitting in the chair.” 

Lewis reels back. He can’t show how this has shaken him, can’t let the men see him scared. So instead of pressing his hands to his face, he ignores how the hair on the back of his neck has stood up. He breathes. 

He’s still looking at Zylus. Zylus gets the idea and keeps talking. “…That was it, kind of. Eventually it all stopped and I guess we all woke up.” 

Lewis wants to press for more details, hungry to build his own recollection of events in his mind. But one look around the circle tells him it can wait. He tells the guys to put the chairs back and takes his leave. 

Arx…saying his name? Lewis in the chair? Lewis doesn’t understand. It easily could’ve killed the recon team, it didn’t have to make them black out. It had an opportunity, but it didn't take it. 

A message. It’s a message. 

Lewis finds Tom sitting on the floor, deep in the depths of the ship. He's down around the engine, where the buzzing is louder and the vibration runs its way along the floor and worms in amongst Lewis' bones. Tom looks up as Lewis approaches. Stanley sits in his lap. Lewis bites the inside of his cheek. It takes a lot of energy to put aside their arguments, but now it seems petty and unnecessary. 

"I spoke to the guys," he says, feeling awkward as he stands in the doorway. Tom looks at him like he's interrupting something. "They... Arx made them black out, and then it sort-of mind controlled them all, showed them visions of them dying. Then Arx said my name and I was sitting where Arx was." 

He gets Tom's attention with the last line. Tom blinks, going from inpatient to stern. Lewis watches as he takes a measured breath. He's stroking Stanley, who looks excessively smug. Lewis only just stops himself from giving the rat a dirty look. Tom doesn't move. "Your name?" 

Lewis licks his lips. He missed Tom. He misses Tom. "Yeah, it was saying my name." 

Tom's brows furrow. "What do you think it is?" 

"I think— well, I think we have to go in there and put a stop to everything." 

"Really?" 

"What else are we supposed to do?" 

Tom is silent. His throat bobs as he swallows. "I don't think that's a very good idea." 

Lewis tries a smile— leaning against the doorframe. "When have any of our ideas been good?" Tom doesn't react, instead picking up Stanley and placing him back into his makeshift cage. He gives the rat a last rub on the head before turning back to Lewis. He pats the floor next to him. He wants Lewis to sit next to him. Lewis pretends his heart doesn't soar at the gesture. 

Lewis steps over. He puts his back against the wall and slides down. Tom radiates warmth next to him. He pulls out a box of cigarettes and lights up. Smoke begins to tickle the back of Lewis' throat. 

"I was thinking I could go." Lewis says, mumbling the words. They feel thick and heavy in his mouth, but he feels better once they're gone. Lewis sits with his knees against his chest, arms clasped round them. 

Tom just puffs out smoke and sighs. "You mean, go on the mission to that throne room or whatever?" 

Lewis swallows. "Yeah," he murmurs. 

"You know that's a death wish, don't you," Tom answers, something sad in his voice. "'Specially for you." 

"Yeah, but— I should be there. I think it wants me to go. I've, you know, brought everyone this far, surely I should finish the job." Lewis can't help the defensive tone. He can feel it, can feel his tongue turn to barbed wire. He feels stupid, but lurking underneath there's some sense of responsibility. He is the Commander, after all. He picked up the torch where the last leader left off. There's a responsibility to finish things all the way through. 

Tom taps his ashes onto the floor. "Surely, we should be doing the opposite of what that... thing wants." 

Lewis blinks. "I know, but. I don't know. It just feels right. To go there." The words hang heavy in the air. Lewis almost regrets saying them, but he doesn't. 

Tom won't catch his eye. "You know if you go in there you won't be coming out." 

"I know," Lewis says, "A one-way trip." 

Tom turns to him. Full on. Lewis can smell the cigarette smoke and the lemon shampoo. "Do you think you could do it?" 

"Do what?" 

"End it." 

"...I think I can definitely try." 

They fall back into silence. Lewis scratches his head. It's not like XCOM will be around much longer, anyway. Would he rather a court martial or one last shot at fixing everything, once and for all? At this point, it doesn't matter what happens. In Lewis' head, there's no reason not to arm himself with a plasma rifle and see what Arx wants with him. 

Lewis squeezes the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on, the low ache above his eyes. "It's not like I've anything to come go back to, anyway." The words are quiet, but Lewis feels Tom stiffen next to him. Lewis can imagine the arguments perfectly— _you mean you can't come back to us?_ However, there's none of that. Instead, Tom exhales smoke and leans his head back against the wall. 

"I missed you, you know," he says. 

Lewis looks at him. The low light of the engine room outlines Tom like a halo. Lewis' stomach doesn't swirl with butterflies, and his heart doesn't jump for joy. Instead, there is a contented finality. It takes root in Lewis' chest, blooming like a flower. 

"I missed you too." He smiles. Tom returns it, quiet. Lewis can see his sadness mirrored in Tom's eyes. They devolve into silence, the burn of Tom's cigarette and the hum of the engine. Lewis leans his head against the wall. They mourn for all things they will lose, now that the world has been uprooted and turned upside-down. 

\- 

The Avenger is a hive of activity. Everyone is preparing. Operation Leviathan, it's been dubbed. Lewis sits amongst spreadsheets of base layouts, average alien activity, best strategies— they're putting more preparation into this than they have for anything else. Tom is hard to find, usually talking to Lalna in low voices or ghosting around the ship. Ben limps around, raising morale where he can. His engineers are busy too, retrofitting the Skyranger to be the ultimate war machine. No one is without a job. 

Lewis himself is wound up with anxious energy. He finds himself in the armoury a lot, trailing his fingers over the worn weapons. The ghost of Chou sits in the corner, dealing her tarot cards like an expert. The thought of her reminds Lewis he isn't just doing this for himself. No, he's doing it for Chou and every other soul they've lost to this cause. If it doesn't work now, when everything is banking on it, then it may as well never work. 

Lewis is just standing up to get a gin when Tom calls him over the comms. "Lewis," he crackles, "Come to the lab, now, please." 

Lewis gets his gin first— he has his priorities straight— and heads over to the lab. Curiosity broils in his stomach, but it's accompanied by sick butterflies that have made their home in Lewis' stomach these last few days. They feel more like hornets. 

Lalna and Tom are hunched over in the corner. The lab is empty— Lewis' footsteps echo across the room and the emptiness feels eerie. Tom turns to him when he arrives. 

"I don't know how you're going to react to this," he begins, looking to Lalna and back to Lewis. 

Lewis takes a sip of his gin. "That's a good introduction." 

Tom ignores him. "We've— well, we've been working on some new technology, um, without your permission. We should use it for Leviathan, though. So it doesn't go to waste." 

Lalna nods. They step apart, revealing an armour suit. It's red, green accents running throughout, a far cry from the clunky body suits the recruits normally wear. No— tighter, smoother, and it seems to shimmer in the light. Like fish scales. Lewis stares. Wires run like veins beneath the metal plating. It glows softly, the visor of the helmet tinted a light green. 

"How long have you been working on this?" He whispers. He's too stunned to be angry that they did this without his permission— of course Lalna would've wanted to do some things off the books, and who better than Tom to help him? Lewis is almost surprised he didn't catch on sooner. 

Tom sighs, and Lewis can see the stress leave his body as the breath does. "A few months now." 

Lewi steps forward, tracing the breastplate. It's cool to the touch. The XCOM logo is stamped in the centre, the words 'VIGILO CONFIDO' glinting in the light. "Is it...for me?" 

"Who else would it be for?" Tom murmurs, stepping closer. 

Lalna takes it as his cue. "It's an alien alloy we repurposed from their technology we collected over the months. Immune to fire _and_ poison, due to cooling systems built into the duroskin. We learned from our mistakes when we first developed mech armour. This, here, is our first and last ever prototype for this." 

"Expensive?" Lewis asks. 

Lalna scoffs. "You have no idea." He pauses, tapping the XCOM crest. "Here is our elerium core. It power the whole suit. Take care of it, Brindley. Blood, sweat and illicit money went into this. We wouldn't want to waste it." 

Lewis doesn't really know what to say. The suit stares back at him, something between and invitation and a mocking. "What is it called?" Lewis asks, stepping back. 

Tom smiles. "The Golem." 

\- 

When XCOM parties, it _parties._

This time, though, there's a sombre undertone. There are no costumes, no elaborate routines and no strip teases. Instead, there are claps on the back and shared stories and laughter. It's all under the guise of alcohol, of course— but despite the liquor, Lewis is able to see it for what it is. This is their goodbyes. 

Smith passes Lewis by the door. He grabs Lewis' elbow, spinning him back round so they're facing each other. "What song do you want?" Smith shouts over the atrocious disco music Sjin is so fond of, nodding at the old sound system. Lewis smiles. He appreciates the gesture. 

"I don't mind!" He says, stepping closer to Smith so Lewis can yell it in his ear. "You pick!" 

Smith grins, teeth shining white in the low light. He nods, giddy, bounding over to the sound system. Lewis is left alone, but soon he finds someone else to give him more booze and another sad smile. He doesn't quite know who leaked the information that this was the end, but everyone seems to know. Lewis is secretly relieved anyway. He didn't know how he was going to tell the crew, but it seems the standard hallway gossip did that job for him. 

People quieten as Turps climbs onto the pool table. The spotlight overhead casts him in an invasive yellow light. It's harsh and leaves black triangles of shadow beneath Turps' eyes. He opens his mouth and shuts it. He swallows. The room is dead silent apart from the whine as the sound system kicks into gear. Turps raises his red cup. 

He hesitates before nodding. "To XCOM." 

Slowly, people raise their cups. Some raise their lighters. Lewis turns to find Ben next to him. Ben smiles lazily as together they raise their glasses. The hair on the back of Lewis' neck stands up. The crowd starts to whoop as The Boys Are Back In Town starts playing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, this fic took a long time to come into existence. Lots of notes, 'research', thinking, a grand total of four playlists and too many awful drawings. I'm aware this fic isn't to everyone's tastes, but I wrote this for myself more than anything else. It was definitely an experience *cough* alien sex *cough*. However, thank you for reading and leaving kudos and commenting. I appreciate the support to no end. Here's to the future, folks <3

Lewis slumps in his chair. Nobody speaks to him. Instead they all look at him as if he's a dead man walking. Lewis supposes he is— he won't be Commander much longer. The bridge feels empty, even though it's fuller than ever. Maybe it's the lack of contact, or maybe it's the echo of footsteps on metal. Maybe it’s how everyone is talking, but not to him. Lewis doesn't know. The monitors around him are filled with images and graphs. He should be reading it, taking it all in, absorbing the information so they can use it when they go after Arx. However, Lewis is slumped in his chair instead, wondering if all of this was a mistake. 

There's a hand on his shoulder. "Go time, boss," Tom murmurs, squeezing Lewis' shoulder lightly. 

Lewis takes a deep breath. _Dead man walking. You're a dead man walking, Brindley._

He stands up. Lewis doesn't have to see them to know almost every eye is on him. Tom looks tired— bleary-eyed but smiling softly. He lights up a cigarette as they start walking towards the armoury. Lewis feels grateful that Tom doesn’t speak. 

"You want one?" Tom asks, holding the box of smokes towards Lewis. It's battered, crumpled from all the use it gets. Not that it matters, since it won’t be long until this box is empty and Tom moves onto a new one. 

Lewis shakes his head. He does want one, for the first time in years— maybe just one? Lewis doesn't want to do this smelling like smoke, though, and the more he thinks about it the less he wants the smoke tickling his lungs, especially now. Especially with his bad lungs. Still, the want remains. 

He shakes his head again. Just to make sure he really doesn't want one. "No, thank you." 

Tom smiles at the ground, saying something about failing as a bad influence. Lewis snorts in response, but it's half-hearted and he doesn't even really know what Tom said. Lewis feels like he's floating. Different words spin around his head— Ben's quiet "You don't have to do this, you know," and Sips' “See you soon, Silkshirt." Dread grows in Lewis' stomach, dragging him down like lead. He doesn't want to do this, but he has no choice. He is doing the right thing. He is saving these people. He is doing the right thing. Isn’t he? 

The door to the armoury slides open in front of them. Lewis doesn't remember the journey over. The place buzzes with movement. Everybody straps on their power suits, readying their weapons. They all look up when Lewis enters. He spots Trott, peering through the scope of his sniper rifle, and Smith, who’s not procrastinating, for the first time in forever. Everyone averts their eyes quickly. Lewis is deaf to their faint whispers and the wailing of the siren. 

Tom leads him to the Golem. Lewis slips into it, feeling the silk-smooth metal skin surround him. It helps settle his stomach, somehow. The vibration of the elerium core hums against Lewis' chest. He grabs a heavy rifle cannon from the rack. He fills his belt up with grenades and medipacks and psi-amps. No, not psi-amps, Lewis thinks, the image of Lalna filling his mind. They're nerd probes. 

They file into the hangar. The Skyranger sits there, proud and fearless. Hornby is busy in the cockpit. The team head up into the back of the ship. Lewis tries his best to delay. 

"Nervous?" Tom asks, a warm hand on Lewis' elbow. He doesn't look concerned. No, instead he looks almost content. Final. _Dead man walking._

Lewis faces Tom, placing his free hand on Tom's shoulder. His eyes are turbulent. Lewis wonders if Tom is as torn up as Lewis is. "To say the least," he replies, blinking. "I'll make sure to decapitate a few chryssalids for you." 

Tom leans forward, and then they're hugging. Tight and warm and enveloping. The Golem crackles with static electricity from Tom's sweater. "'M sorry," Lewis mumbles into Tom's shoulder. 

Lewis doesn't know why he's apologising. Lewis doesn't know a lot of things. Lewis aches, briefly, for their friendship. Short and stormy and sweet. Worth it, with all the cigarette smoke and half-drank gins. 

"It's okay," Tom whispers. "It's okay. You'll be okay. Don't worry. You'll make it." 

Lewis tries to stop his eyes from burning and smiles. "Don't lie to me, Clark." 

"Would never lie to you, Commander." 

They pull apart, and then Ben grabs Lewis' arm, pulling him close. Lewis didn’t even know Ben was there. Ben smiles, toothy and reassuring, as he turns to whisper in Lewis’ ear. Lewis grabs Ben’s hands, and clasps them when he feels how cold they are. 

"Do you remember what you told me, all those years ago? In the jungle?" Ben’s breath is warm against Lewis' neck. He shakes his head, and Ben leans in closer again. "You told me we'd be together till the end." 

He pulls back. Ben looks tired, melancholic— but he's smiling and his eyes look like molten chocolate and tree bark and dog shit and walnuts. Lewis blinks. His eyes are burning stronger now. He blinks to make it stop, but it doesn't work. 

Lewis doesn't want to look away, doesn't want to be without Tom and Ben and their warmth and their presence, but Hornby is counting down over the comms and Lewis is being pulled into the Skyranger. The troops pull their helmets on, lining up on either side of the cabin. Lewis steps in. They salute. 

Lewis grabs his helmet. "Let's get this over with," he says.


End file.
